From the Sea
by EmmBee
Summary: Aria, the youngest daughter of the Sea King, has never been happy below the water. But when she falls in love with a human prince, her life changes forever. Based on Hans Christian Andersen's "The Little Mermaid."
1. Aria

**Author's Note: More than a year after beginning to post this story, I am once again in the process of editing it. Updated chapters will be replacing the current chapters one at a time; hopefully, the entire story will be completely edited by the end of the summer. For those of you who haven't read this story before, I will do everything in my power to keep the story readable as I post the edited chapters.**

**Enjoy!**

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My earliest memory is the day of my mother's death. I remember the Great Hall filled with courtiers, strewn with large purple flowers, purple as the evening when it touches the blue sand. The color is etched into my mind. Purple is the color of grief; nothing could have been a more exquisite shade of deep, radiant, soft purple than the enormous petals of those flowers. I remember the way the flowers had nodded at the crowd, seeming to my naïve eyes to be bowing in sympathy. I learned only later that flowers, even the purple ones used in mourning, do not feel sympathy.

My father had been at the front of the crowd. To this day I can still remember the grief in his silver eyes, the pain that tightened his lips and furrowed his brow. His hair had not been quite as grey then as it is now; some black had tipped the roots of his hair that day. He was covered in purple flowers: a wreath of them had replaced his usual gold crown, his fingers clasped a bouquet of them, the long robe on his shoulders was woven of them. The depth of the color was striking against his pale flesh and silver eyes.

Grandmother—my father's mother—had been next to my father, at the head of the crowd. She had looked sorrowful—I recall the tight, thin set of her lips, the puckering at her brow, the restless fingers that had hovered over my father's arm—but her eyes held none of the intense, passionate grief so evident in my father's face. She observed the proceedings with her faintly obscured eyes, for at that time she had not been as blind as she is now, watching carefully as those giving the service continued with their duties. She had also held a bouquet and worn a wreath of purple flowers.

I remember my older sisters on that day less vividly than I remember my father and grandmother, perhaps because I took little note of them. I believe they must have been with Father and Grandmother, or not far away, but the only distinct memory I have of them on the day of my mother's death is the way they embraced each other when the crowd began to lift its voice in song. All five of them had twisted themselves together, into a single tight ball of arms and hair and tailfins. When the singing began, my five older sisters had thrown back their heads and sang like I had never heard them sing before.

I had watched all from a place where I was half-hidden behind a pillar; I was nearing my second Hatching Day at the time. Though I have no memory of my mother, I do remember how I had felt that day: hollowed out, an abandoned snail shell. I remember how, some nights later, when it struck me that she really was never going to return, the pain had ripped through me. I remember waking in the middle of the night, screaming, and hurdling through the darkness out of the castle. I had rushed from the palace, through my sisters' flowerbeds and my grandmother's kelp forest, to the small plot of purple flowers tucked into the far corner of the garden, and had thrown myself facedown into the blue sand. I remember with absolute clarity, even after nearly eight years, the incredible agony that tore from my fingertips to my tailfins. I had clawed at the sand with my fingernails, attempting to somehow release the pain; I had screamed and screamed for the same purpose. But neither did any good. My mother was gone, dissolved into sea foam, and nothing I could do would ever bring her back.

None of us actually knew why my mother had died, so prematurely, nearly one hundred years before her time. There were rumors, naturally, rumors that my father despised; he strove in vain for years to conceal them. But gossip about the cause of the queen's sudden, premature death would not be silenced, no matter how hard Father tried. It was Andante, the sister closest to my age, who explained the most widely-circulated one to me. "Mother loved the surface," she told me. "Her fascination with the world of air was overpowering. Remember? She was almost never home. She was always at the surface. They say in the court that she simply forgot to breathe while she was at the surface, or that she tried to breathe air and suffocated." She looked down at her fingers and began drawing the lines of her name in the sand.

I had rested my fingertips against my gill slits and tried futilely to imagine what it would be like to breathe anything but water. "Are there creatures that can live that way?" I asked Andante, pulling her mind away from the sober contemplation of her name on the ground.

"Creatures?" she repeated, her raised eyebrows clearly expressing her surprise. "I am not sure, but I do know that there is a whole world above our heads, at the surface of the water."

Looking up, I had strained to see the world at the surface, but could not. My eyesight only extended to just beyond the gilded spires of the castle, where the water grows forbiddingly dark—a blue so deep that it appears nearly black—where the fish turn peculiar and eerie, where plants refuse to grow. I had shuddered and wrapped my arms about myself to soothe away the fear brought on by the sight of that dark water. "A whole world," I had mused. "Why should there not be creatures in it?"

"Grandmother may know more," Andante suggested.

I had gone to Grandmother immediately after speaking with Andante. I found her hovering languidly near a window in her apartment. "Grandmother? Are there creatures in the world at the surface?" I had asked.

Grandmother had turned to me, her brow furrowed. "Now, why would my little Aria be asking such a question?" she had demanded of me, not sharply, but with a great deal of surprise.

"Andante said you would know," I had replied. "Are there creatures up above our heads?"

Grandmother had nodded slowly. "Yes, my dear girl, there are creatures in the world of air."

I had clasped my hands, delighted. "There are? O, Grandmother, what are they like?"

"Like? They are like nothing in the water, and there are so many different kinds of them! There are fish that soar in the air, and tiny whales that crawl along the ground. But the dominant creature in the world of air is called 'human'; they are a singular sort of species, similar to us in some ways, and very different from us in others." She had reached one finger to my small, blue-scaled tail and tickled the fins until I had giggled. "They do not have tails; instead, they survive on two skinny props they call 'legs,' and they do not have gills. They breathe the air in a manner that is strange to us.

"Why does my little girl wish to know such things? A time will come when you have grown up and will be able to see the surface. Until then, Aria, be content with knowing nothing else."

But being content with such a partial knowledge has proven to be far more difficult than Grandmother made it seem. Over the years that followed my first learning about a world without water, I have gleaned more details about the world of air, but, the more I learn, the less content I become with simply learning and imagining. There are so many things I cannot imagine, so many things that I wish to see for myself: air, dirt, sunlight. And humans—humans most of all. More than anything I have ever wanted in my life, I want a chance to see a human, to understand how they move without fins and breathe without gills.

Three years ago, on the day of my seventh Hatching Day, my father granted me a piece of the castle gardens as my own. Being entrusted with a piece of the castle's magnificent garden is a traditional honor of the Sea King's daughters, and it is considered the first step in becoming a responsible adult. I fretted with the decision of what to plant in my corner for almost a year; all the while, everyone who saw the empty corner of the garden would laugh at me for keeping it bare. But I could not help it. My sisters had taken their responsibility to their plots with a great deal more lightness than I could.

That is not to say that my sisters' plots are not lovely, for they are. Of all the places in the garden, the Sea King's daughter's flowerbeds are indeed the most praised and enjoyed. Harmony, the eldest, has pliant, flexible flowers, the color of sand and shells; Melody's plot is a green-eyed mermaid in the sand, and Rhythm's is an astonishingly accurate portrayal of a striped-nose. Allegro and Andante have plots that share a side, and sometimes Andante's flowers, which are all as unruly as she is, migrate into Allegro's rows, which are all as orderly as she tries to be.

But I wanted to do something different with the corner of the castle garden allotted to me, something that no mermaid has ever seen before. And so, after a year of fretting, I finally decided what I was going to do with my little corner: I was going to represent all that Grandmother had told me about the sun in the world of air.

My flowers are red, red as nothing in this water is, as red as the sand is blue, and their contrast to the sand is marvelous, almost blinding. I planted these vibrant red flowers in as perfect a circle as I could manage, and I tend to them more diligently than they in truth require, for these flowers are the only thing about which I care. I leave my circle of bright red flowers only when extreme necessity compels me to do so; therefore, I have no friends save my sisters, and I have no life save my garden—and Grandmother's stories about the world of air. Nothing else, not the fish that swim through the castle, not the balls held on storm-free nights, not the gold and jewels mined from the deep, interests me. My life is my flowerbed and my grandmother's tales.

When I was younger, I tried hard to be more normal, to take interest in the things that most mermaids enjoy: I had ridden the castle fish, explored the castle grounds, played kelp-catch and Kill the Sea Monster—somehow, I always ended up the sea monster. Yet, regardless of my efforts, I had never enjoyed a single moment of the usual mermaid pastimes—though I was, I thought, an excellent sea monster. The other mermaids disliked me, I found out, once overhearing one talk to another. "Princess Aria," she had said, "is such a nuisance, always hanging on me like a barnacle." The other mermaid had agreed, adding that she thought I _surely_ should have known that no one liked would ever have to play the sea monster _every single_ time.

I had spent the rest of that day amongst my flowers, deeply hurt by their comments. Harmony had found me there hours later. "What is amiss, little sister?" she had asked, patting my back as I laid face down in the sand.

"No one likes me," I replied, coldly, not allowing my feelings to be heard in my words.

"That is not true. I like you." She had grabbed a handful of my hair and twisted it around her fingers.

"You are my sister; you _must_ like me."

Harmony bent down to my ear and whispered, "That is also not true. Sometimes I do not like Andante…particularly Andante."

I had looked up at her, amazed. Harmony is the kindest, most honest creature I have ever met; it seemed impossible that she could harbor such dark secrets.

"But that knowledge must stay between us," she had added hastily. "Andante must never know."

I had nodded quickly, conscious of the dissent that would arise in our family if Andante and her quick temper were aware that Harmony had said such a thing.

"But I always like you, Aria. Tell me now, what gave you the idea that no one likes you?"

"I heard Rubato and Forte talking about me, and they called me a barnacle. They said that no one who was liked would always have to play the sea monster—and I do. I _always_ play the sea monster, Harmony, every single time." I had buried my face into my arms again. "I have tried so hard to be normal and friendly and likeable, to take interest in something—_any_thing—other than my flowers and Grandmother's stories, but what good has that done? I am so stupid for not having noticed before." Pain and betrayal had shot through me as I recalled the other mermaids' words, and I had pressed my face into the sand until my cheeks and nose stung from the pressure.

Harmony stayed by me, twisting and braiding my hair; the touch of her cool fingers was a comfort. "You are not stupid, Aria," she mumbled after a while. "They only said such things because they do not know you. Now come inside; supper will be served soon."

"I am not hungry."

"And I do not believe that. Come along." Harmony had traded my hair for my hand and half-dragged me into the castle.

I spent the next several days listening carefully to everything anyone said about me and teaching myself not to care about what they thought. In my flowerbed, I would repeat over and over every mocking word or disdainful look I received until the words lost their edges and the looks lost their venom. At first, the exercise was immensely painful, but I gradually grew used to it, used to being deliberately left behind when the other mermaids swam off on their own adventures, used to their condescending remarks about how no humans would be playing so I could just swim back to my flowerbed. I grew used to hearing the other mermaids laugh at me when I just turn around and swim away without another word.

But sometimes, even after years of discovering and then acclimating myself to my isolation, being abandoned to my flowerbed, watching all the other mermaids loop their arms around each other and float off on adventures unknown, is almost too lonely to bear.


	2. The Mirror

Not long ago, my sisters discovered a new and diverting pastime: exploring sunken ships. After particularly eventful excursions, they bring home some of the most unusual objects: short, four-pronged spears, reflective glass encased in silver, elongated bags made of material that is both stiff and pliant. Grandmother takes all the queer relicts and always has a story for each one. "Yes," she says the day my sisters hand her the spear, "this is indeed a human object."

It takes only the word "human" to make me take interest. Sometimes, my sisters bring home bits of the ship or the bones of a non-human creature from the world of air; I do not much care about those objects. But if my grandmother even lets that magical word—"human"—pass from her lips, I drop everything I might be doing and swim to hear.

"What does it do, Grandmother? What is it for?" I ask eagerly, holding out my hand toward the miniature spear. Grandmother offers the object to me, and I examine it from every angle. Its prongs do not feel sharp enough to be dangerous, so I cannot think it is a weapon, but it is heavy in my hand. Perhaps it is some sort of human building tool, something used to bore holes or scrape away sand.

"It is called a fork," Grandmother replies. "Humans do not like touching their food with their fingers, as they are afraid their food may dirty their hands; they use forks to pick up their food and transport it to their mouths."

"What a peculiar species humans must be!" Andante exclaims.

I look again at the object, the "fork," in my hand, admiring the intricate, interlocking swirls engraved on the end of the handle. Peculiar, indeed! Humans must be intelligent and artistic to create such beautiful artifacts. "May I try it?" I wonder, not realizing that I have interrupted Andante's continued speculations until Andante falls silent and turns to glare at me. But I am too exited by the possibility of trying the human object to care about my temperamental older sister's feelings. "May I try using this…this 'fork' at supper?"

"If you care to use it, my dear girl, you may" is Grandmother's answer.

I eat my supper that night—clams and fresh-stewed kelp, the chef's specialty—with the fork; my behavior earns for itself many strange looks from many confused courtiers. Even my father watches me with curiosity. "Aria, what is that in your hand?" he wonders.

"It is called a fork. Father, it is how humans eat food. Watch!" I had discovered that my first thought, that the fork is a kind of tiny spear, is in fact correct in a way, for one must hold the handle end and stab firmly at the food. The food, then, speared onto the pronged end, is easy to transport to the mouth, where I guess it is to be removed by the teeth—to take it off the prongs with the fingers seems to defeat the purpose of not actually touching the food. I demonstrate the technique for my father, who watches with a bemused expression, shakes his head, and continues his supper.

Though I find the fork to be the most interesting relic my sisters bring home, it is the silver-encased reflective glass that causes the most stir among my family and the court. Bestowed by Grandmother with the word "mirror" and said to be the object with which humans keep track of their facial development, it is the fad for several months. Courtiers line up every day to glimpse themselves in the glass; in it, they can see what they look like. Some giggle and appear pleased, others are indifferent about or unhappy with what they see. I have not yet ventured to look at myself, despite my nagging curiosity, because I am terrified of what the glass might show. My hands, tail, and body are pretty enough to keep me from standing out, but I am worried about my face. Considering the way everyone treats me, it is only reasonable to guess that my face is disfigured. I probably have squinty eyes set too close together, or a nose that bends to one side.

For almost a whole season, the court hums with talk of the mirror; it is the topic of gossip—"Did you know that I caught Sonata looking into it for nearly an hour? How vain she is!"—of wonder—"How do humans keep from being ruled by their reflections?"—and of dissent—"I honestly do not know why everyone calls you so pretty; you are a sea monster compared to me." Slowly but inexorably, the dissent morphs into rivalry, and the rivalry, in its most climactic moment, leads to genuine violence. Then, with one young merman in the infirmary with a spear wound to his shoulder and another in custody for the unjust use of weapons, my father sentences the mirror to permanent exile and forbids the use of human objects in his water. He assigns me to take the mirror as far as I can swim in the space of one day and bury it as far as my arm can reach. "You, little Aria, have not been taken in by this object's spell," he comments, handing me the silver-encased reflective glass that he had wrapped in seaweed.

"I have not looked into it, no, Father," I admit while trying to ignore the regret I feel for missing the chance to see my face.

"Good girl. Now take this pernicious artifact and dispose of it so it may never return to haunt us."

I do as my father orders, removing the human mirror from the castle and carrying it far away, further than I had ever before gone—silently thankful for the innate and infallible sense of direction that all merfolk, even strange ones like me, possess. It is the hot springs that mark the boundary of my father's land that stop me. Beyond is the realm of the sea witch, the most powerful being in the ocean, who would as soon eat a trespassing mermaid as look at her. I stare out past the hot springs, the mirror clutched to my breast, amazed by the bare greyish sands and vast empty spaces that comprise the sea witch's land. No flower, kelp, or fish live in that hot, oppressive water; stories say that the sea witch alone, with the occasional water serpent, can tolerate such water, that just the excessive salt content could irritate the gills to suffocation. Whether the stories are true or not is not for me to say, as I have never ventured much beyond my own flowerbed, but they are certainly effective at driving home their message: stay out of the sea witch's domain.

Shuddering, I remind myself of my task and set down the mirror to free my hands for the burial process. The seaweed that covered the glass had fallen off sometime during the journey, and the object sparkles faintly from the little light in the water as though mourning its fate. "There is no need to look so sad," I scold it. The hole I am digging is as deep as my elbows. "It is your own fault. If you were not so tempting…" My sentence fades off as I look at the mirror. Surely one little peek will do no harm, cause no trouble, not here at the edge of the merpeople kingdom, where no one will ever know. I shake my head and continue digging. But the same thought floats through my mind again as I lift the mirror to put it in its hole. It reflects a brightly-colored fish swimming behind me; with only a tilt of the wrist, it could be reflecting _me_…

I submit to the temptation and curiosity and look, hesitant and scared, into the reflective glass for the first time.

For a moment, I think that someone must have come up from behind me, and it is _her_ face that I am seeing, because the glass shows a face much too pretty to be _mine_. But when I whirl around to see who is behind me, there is only the same brightly-colored fish and nothing else. I look back down at the mirror, surprised. I am not disfigured; I am, in fact, quite pretty. Not as beautiful as Harmony, but pretty. I had always expected that my eyes are the same deep blue color as my scales, but they are larger than I had imagined them, and much more finely shaped. My nose is small and properly straight; my cheekbones are high and rounded; my skin is clear and faintly silver, a striking contrast to my long silvery-black hair.

I stare at myself, shocked beyond words at the knowledge that I am not in any way ugly or disfigured. Then my mind starts whirring frantically. As long as I had suspected having some grotesque defect on my face, the turned-up noses and irritated glares of all the other mermaids had made some comforting sense. Now, knowing that I am as pretty as any of them, I realize that they disdain me because I really _am_ strange. I had taught myself long ago to not be hurt by their words, but I had thought then that there was some kind of external reason that they dislike me. No, I realize now, looking at the perfectly agreeable face in the mirror, other mermaids dislike me because of who I am. If who I am is what they so hate, then I will never be able to change their minds.

Angry now, I shove the mirror into the hole and bury it. "Stay there!" I snap, furious and hurt, and, finally finished, I cross my arms and swim morosely back to my flowers.


	3. Harmony's Hatching Day

Deeply upset by Father's banning of human objects, my sisters decide, in a manner that is almost defiant, to not give up their explorations of sunken ships. "He said we are not allowed to _use_ them," Andante claims, "not that we are not allowed to _see_ them or _find_ them." With that justification backing their reason, my five older sisters continue to search human vessels while I remain amongst my circle of bright red flowers.

One day, just a few days before Harmony's eighteenth Hatching Day, Rhythm bursts, excited, into my garden. "Aria, Aria, you must come see what we have found!" she gushes.

"What is it?" I ask, cupping a flower in my hands and wishing I were closer to Harmony's age.

"We are not sure; Melody has gone to fetch Grandmother. But we think it must be a human…or some representation of one," she adds when I drop the flower and snap my head up to look at her.

I press my palms together to steady my fingers. "Show me," I whisper, my voice barely audible even to my own ears. Rhythm beckons with her arm and swims through the garden; I hover on her tail, attempting to swallow the sudden flare of eagerness that rose with Rhythm's words.

Following a several-minute's swim, we reach one of the many sunken ships on this land. "In here," Rhythm instructs, leading me through a large tear in the ship's side. The corridor we enter is long, narrow, and dark; the ship moans with the subtle change in current our tails create as they lash from one side to the other, propelling us forward. Vegetation has twined itself through the planks of the corridor, and a few pale fish weave through the holes in the walls. I have never been inside a sunken ship before, and this first experience is eerie: the ship groans and creaks in the darkness, apparently ready to collapse on top of my sister and me at any moment. A little frightened, I shudder and wrap my arms around myself. Even the water, I realize, is colder in here.

Rhythm leads me most of the way down the corridor, turning sharply to the left just a few lengths before another wall marks the end of the narrow passageway. In the room on the left are my other sisters and grandmother. "It is called a statue," Grandmother informs us. "Humans use them to decorate their houses, and this one is a true likeness of a lovely human maid."

I clamp my arms against my sides and peer at the object that has captured such rapt attention from my sisters. It is hewn from marble, marble as pure white as marble could ever be. Its top half is like the head and torso of a mermaid, but it holds itself erect. A cascade of marble ripples fall from its shoulders to the circular base upon which it stands; one arm rests lightly against its side, while the other is bent at the elbow with the fingertips hovering just above its collarbone. With its head cocked downward, its eyes on the ground, a shy, pleased smile on its face, it is easy to imagine that this human maid had perhaps just received a passionate vow from a timid lover. In my naivety, I think that the rippling marble is the legs. "No, no, my dear little Aria," Grandmother corrects me, chuckling. "That is the maid's robe—her clothing. Her legs would be under the robe, if you could lift it up."

"Clothing? What is clothing?" Harmony asks.

Grandmother's reply and any subsequent questions from my sisters are lost to oblivion, drowned out by the frantic pulsing of blood in my ears. I circle the statue slowly, staring, lost in my delight and fascination. Grandmother had grossly understated the truth by calling it "a lovely human maid." Even here in a world where few beings are less than pretty, where most are in fact quite beautiful, I have never in my life encountered such an image. The straight nose, fine eyes, and full mouth, the curly hair caught back with what would likely be golden bands if the statue were a living being, the grace and composure, with a hint of charming timidity, of the whole erect object—the statue is undoubtedly the most wonderful, most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I want to reach out and touch it, to reassure myself of its reality, but I do not, afraid that my touch might prove it to be nothing but a delusion of a fanciful mermaid.

In the name of all things good, what a strange mermaid I am, losing my head entirely because of an object, an artifact, an image made from a stone as common as sand! If I behave this way, lose myself so completely because of the _likeness_ of a human, what will I do when I see a _real_ human? Probably follow in my mother's wake, I think sourly. Maybe I shall turn truly mad and launch myself onto the shore and forget to breathe—or try to breathe air—thereby suffocating myself.

I shake my head, bringing my mind back into the water where it belongs. But still my attention remains fixed on the statue. What amazing creatures humans must be! The fork had been generously embellished with those delicate swirls; the mirror had been magnificent, of pure silver and reflective glass. It would seem, however, that humans do not stop at little details of curls on their food-spears. They have grander, mightier ideas, ideas that express themselves in art so perfect, so wonderful, that just looking at it drives away the mind. I have seen carved marble before: a few of the castle windows are decorated with the shapes of fish and flowers, but nothing—no single thing—in this world could be even remotely comparable to the statue, for nothing inanimate in this world could ever be so lovely, so…alive.

My sisters and grandmother, deciding that it must be nearing suppertime, have to haul me out of the sunken ship and back to the castle. "How fortunate you are, Harmony," I mutter to my eldest sister as she yanks, again, at my left arm.

"Why do you say that? Certainly, I am fortunate in many ways, but what specifically brings you to say so?" Harmony wonders, struggling against my inertness.

"You are so close to your eighteenth Hatching Day, and I am horribly jealous of you for it."

"I have waited just as long as you will have to before I am able to see the surface," Harmony tells me, as unfailingly patient as ever.

Though she speaks truth, I am irritated by her calm tone. "That does not matter. It is unfair!" I grumble.

"It is supremely fair, Aria. All merfolk see the surface for the first time on the eve of their eighteenth Hatching Days, not a day sooner or a day later. All must wait precisely the same amount of time before discovering the new world. Is that not fairness at its very best?"

"It is not," I protest argumentatively. "Those who do not care about seeing the surface do not suffer for eighteen years the way…those who wish to see it do." I had come dangerously close to saying "I do," changing my words just before they slipped out, but it does not matter; Harmony understands what I mean. She smiles gently and continues to tow me toward the castle. "I am perfectly capable of swimming on my own," I declare, struggling against her grip.

"Then prove it, and do so. Aria, you need not wish to be grown up before your time; enjoy your childhood while you still may. I do regret having not done so. Now, I am nearly an adult, a member of society, and just the thought is terrifying." Harmony drops my arm and pauses to look at me. Her seaweed-green eyes are troubled and anxious. Shocked by her feelings and wishing to cheer her, I rest my hand on her cheek and smile. "There is more to becoming an adult than simply seeing the surface for the first time, little sister," she says, smiling in return and pressing her fingers into the back of my hand.

"Yes. I know," I reply, unable to disguise the twinge of bitterness in my voice. With a tug that extracts my hand from under Harmony's fingers, I brush past my eldest sister and hurry toward the castle.

I spend the next two days working furiously in my flowerbed, aware that Harmony's Hatching Day celebration will bring in merfolk from all over the kingdom, and, with the castle gardens rumored to be the most fantastic gardens anywhere, I want my vibrant red circle of flowers to look as beautiful as is possible. Two plots over, Allegro weeds and prunes her rows, scolding Andante when the frenzied mess that is Andante's flowerbed spills into her careful cultivation. "Do something with those yellow weeds of yours," she commands, "or I will remove them all. They are taking over my bluebells."

"You must not criticize me for my flowers. Your bluebells do not belong so near my yellowsprouts. Touch them," Andante adds when Allegro stretches out her hand to pluck the small yellow flowers, "consider digging them up, and I will grind your bluebells to seeds."

"You obnoxious little sea monster!" Allegro shouts, but her hand is stayed. Andante smirks, gloating in her victory. Every day or two, Allegro's meticulous perfectionism clashes with Andante's impetuous will, often resulting in argument about something. Winning the arguments switches from one to the other so predictably that I wonder if they discuss and rehearse their disagreements before performing them.

As the merfolk from around the kingdom begin pouring into the castle, I shun the area more and more. Strangers make me nervous, and there is nothing worse than being caught up in a whole crowd of strangers. I spend a great deal of time swimming through the kelp forest just beyond the castle gardens, watching the fish dart through the tall waving strands of kelp. Fish are fortunate creatures, I decide. They are not intelligent enough to consider what they might be missing in being sea creatures. I wonder if humans are intelligent enough to wonder about things. "Are they curious about us?" I ask of a particularly interested-looking fish. "Do they ever stand on their shores and stare down at the sea wondering about the world of water?" The fish gazes at me blankly for a moment, then turns—revealing its vivid stripes of orange and blue—and flits back into the depth of the kelp. I laugh to myself. "Imagine," I mutter, still aloud, "imagine being curious about kelp forests and merfolk and…and sand." Sighing, I reach out and grab a small piece of kelp as it wavers in the soft current. "It is not your fault," I apologize. "You are lovely; I am just a strange mermaid. Likely, talking to kelp is proof enough of that fact."

From across the garden, Andante's voice calls me to supper. I drop the kelp and obey the summons.

--

The Great Hall is splendid for Harmony's Hatching Day celebration. The thick crystal walls and ceiling have been scoured to glittering perfection; the gold arch beneath which my father and grandmother float has been polished until it gleams and gives off its own golden light into the dim blue water. The high, grandly curved ceiling allows guests to look up and marvel at the hues of the fish that swim outside and overhead, while the transparent walls offer magnificent views of the vast and colorful gardens. Garlands of soft blue and pale yellow flowers from Harmony's flowerbed cascade down the corners of the Hall. Though the windows had been closed and most of the fish chased away from the Hall, a few errant stripe-noses still hover in the corners of the room. Stripe-noses, especially spoilt ones, are notoriously willful, but they stay in the corners of the room, not daring to move through the room or snack on the heaping trays of food as they might under more normal circumstances. Everything from stewed kelp and seaweed wraps to muscles and several varieties of fish are stacked on a low platform at the back of the room. To the surprise—and partially masked delight—of the guests, the cooks finish the banquet selections with an entire shark, stuffed with clam and kelp.

"Have you ever tasted shark?" Melody wonders, taking me by the hand and tugging me toward the food.

"Never." I stare at the shark's eye, threatening even in death. "I did not know they were edible."

"They are rare as food, because they are obviously so dangerous to hunt. But some consider it worth the danger. Here, have some." My sister thrusts a chunk of meat at me, which, upon eating it, I find to be more delicious than I had anticipated. Unlike the slimy, stringy texture of clams and muscles, shark is tough, rich, and zesty.

"And so the predator becomes the prey," I comment once I have swallowed the meat. It tastes fabulous, but it is so much heavier than my usual diet that it sits oddly in my stomach. My face must have appeared queasy, because Melody laughs and explains that the one shark can easily last this whole court a whole night for its unaccustomed richness. "It is a treat," she says, "but you would never want to eat too much."

The heaviness is migrating from my stomach to my limbs, weighing down my arms and tail like too much gold jewelry. "I do not think I can swim as it is," I tell Melody, groaning a little and trying to rub the sudden stickiness from my eyes.

Melody laughs again and takes my hand. "The effect is not long-lasting. It is a strange sensation."

"Like being a child again," I agree. My eyelids are drooping; my consciousness, slowly fading. I can still hear a few courtiers shrieking over having a shark and can see others rushing over to grab a chunk, but all movement and noise seems distant and indistinct. I am sleepy, I realize with a start; sleepiness is a sensation that no mermaid my age would ever normally experience.

Then, just as quickly and powerfully as the feeling came, the heaviness and exhaustion disappear. I blink a few times, shake my head to clear it, and look at Melody. "Astonishing!" I exclaim. "Was that all because of that little piece of shark?"

Melody chuckles affirmatively and leads me over to my other sisters. "Little Aria is all grown up," she announces, smiling. "She just tasted her first piece of shark."

"And how did you like it, little sister?" Rhythm asks.

"It was…" I pause to consider which word I want. "…Peculiar. I had almost forgotten what it feels like to be sleepy."

My sisters give an appreciative laugh. "Shall we fetch ourselves some shark meat?" Allegro asks.

"And a piece for Harmony as well," Andante adds as the four of them swim to the food.

Dancing begins at midday. Harmony, who is a marvelous dancer, is entreated to take the first turn. To the soft singing of a few volunteers, Harmony twirls and glides over the dance floor. With gold woven through her dark, silvery hair, a crown of dark yellow flowers circling her brow, and eight enormous, pearly oysters attached to her green scales, my eldest sister is a sight almost too beautiful to be real. One particularly attractive young merman appears to share my admiration of Harmony; he stares at her fixedly with a small smile on his lips. At one point during the dance, I see her meet his eyes, and the expression that crosses their faces informs everyone who is looking that the next celebration at the castle will be a wedding.

Such is the manner of love among merfolk: all it takes is one moment, one look. Grandmother once said that a mermaid can know whether a merman is right for her the first time she meets his eyes. Mermen, she had said, fancy themselves in love continually from the time they are five years old, but a mermaid _knows_, knows when the right merman has come, and she passes her knowledge to the merman with only a single look. No mermaid, Grandmother had added when Andante had asked how a mermaid would know, has ever been wrong. "It is a much a part of a mermaid as her scales or her memory. You will know when the right merman comes along." Harmony, it seems, has found her merman; when the couple's dancing begins, they dance together the whole time.

But even her new love cannot keep my sister's mind from the coming twilight or what the coming twilight means for her. As the waters darken, indicating evening, Harmony grows restless in her partner's arms. "It is almost time for you to leave?" I hear her partner ask, his warm tenor voice trembling with repressed regret.

"Almost," Harmony replies, missing a beat in the music as she glances through the ceiling toward the surface.

"In that case, Princess," the merman says, bowing Harmony off the dance floor, "have a wonderful night." Their linked fingers linger on each other's for a moment as they part.

I bite my lip, trying with little success to contain the jealousy that shivers through me, and hurry to Harmony. She grabs my elbows, understanding bright in her green eyes. Her fingers are cool, and long enough that they touch when they clasp my arm. "Have a wonderful time," I wish, extracting my lip from between my teeth. I look down at the sand on the ground; indoors, it is tidy and nearly the same deep blue color as my scales. Jealousy rouses within me, and my fingers—though balled into fists—tremble.

"Aria. Do not look so angry. Soon, you, too, will be eighteen, able to see the world of air for the first time." Harmony releases one of my elbows and lays her hand along my tight-clenched jaw, her thumb brushing lightly against my cheek, the pressure of her hand tilting my head until I am again looking at her. A hint of sadness flickers in her eyes. "Aria, I do not want to see the surface knowing that you are angry with me because I was hatched before you were. Little sister, please do not begrudge me your approval."

"My approval cannot be so important to you," I mutter, an unhappy edge on my voice. But when Harmony's mouth dips into a slight frown, and a faint crease appears on her brow, I add, hasty and contrite, "But you have it, sister. Of course you have it. I am not angry with you." I uncurl my fingers and touch her arm. "Go now, Harmony," I whisper. "Go now, and have a marvelous time."

"I will tell you everything," she promises. Then, with a kiss to my forehead and a whirl of her tailfin, Harmony is gone.


	4. Mermaid Love

Harmony returns as the water lightens to deep blue from near black, excitement and wonder shining in her eyes. "The world of air is marvelous—more marvelous than Grandmother ever said!" she gushes to my sisters and me. Taking Rhythm by the arms, she twirls around the room, half-dancing.

"What did you do? What did you see?" Rhythm asks, breathless from the twirling.

"I saw a city. A _human_ city!"

I inhale sharply and push toward my eldest sister. "They have cities?"

"An enormous one that sparkles in the dark. They have funny rocks on the ground that they travel over and huge buildings that clang every hour. And they have music. O, such music—strange and eerie and amazing. It is not like our music; it is harsher somehow, less…" She fumbles a moment for the right word, arms gesturing helplessly. "…Less slippery, more driven, more…intense. It has a beat, a very strong beat that almost overwhelms the melody." She breathes deeply, her gills flaring, and shakes her head regretfully. "I am sorry that I cannot describe anything adequately. It is all so indescribable."

"Did you see any humans?" I wonder, hardly aloud.

"Not up close; I stayed near the shore, but the city was up on a bank, a cliff. I could not see much save the sparkling buildings. Human buildings are amazing, Aria. They glow from the inside, even in the dark."

The clamoring from my other sisters pushes me away from Harmony, but I am too wrapped up in my own thoughts and imaginings to much notice. Glowing buildings that clang every hour. How extraordinary! I close my eyes and try to picture it: a human city, full of glowing buildings and rocks on the ground, humans traveling from one clanging, sparkling building to the next, strange music thumping to the rhythm of their movement like a heartbeat. Humans are still hard to imagine, as I still cannot quite comprehend how a being could travel without a tail or breathe without gills. Despite their certain inaccuracies, the humans in my mind—all as beautiful and erect as the statue in the sunken ship—are thrilling, and the human city, perched on a cliff that towers above the dark, smooth plane of the surface, glittering and glowing and clanging as Harmony described, the human city outshines every lovely thing here in the water.

Because she is now an adult, Harmony is no longer sea-bound; she may go to the surface as often as she wishes—provided she does not miss any important castle functions. She takes vigorous advantage of her new privilege and is only around for the next several weeks when her duties as heir refuse to allow her to leave. After those first few weeks, however, Harmony's fervor for the world of air diminishes as another, more personal, fervor begins to take shape.

Harmony's wedding takes place a little more than a season after her Hatching Day. There is nothing—no Hatching Day celebrations, no court banquets, no ceremonies or concerts—as spectacular as a wedding, and there is no wedding as magnificent as that of the heir apparent's. The Great Hall is so covered in flowers that one cannot even see through the walls. The flowers are all shades of pink, from ones with only the faintest blush of color to ones only a shade lighter than the proper red of my favorite flowers. Pink is an unusual color for a flower; servants have been hunting for them since the wedding was announced. When Harmony comes dancing into the Hall, she is wearing a crown of faintly-colored flowers. Gold jewelry circles her arms from wrist to elbow, loops across her breast, trails off her tail. Her merman, Opus, is no less splendid: wrapped just as generously in golden chains and jewelry, a bouquet of gently pink flowers clasped in his hands, only Harmony can rival his magnificence.

The wedding is performed completely in song. Father, wearing only a thin gold band as a crown and holding a small bouquet the same color as Opus's, officiates. He has a deep, strong voice that touches every corner of the Hall; though his melody is steady, his harmonies waver almost indiscernibly. A single purple flower in the midst of the light pink bouquet express the sadness he must feel in marrying off his oldest daughter.

Once he is finished the half-chanted opening blessing, Harmony sings her part of the Vows. Her voice is a high, clear soprano, and the note on which she ends the Vows soars to the ceiling and makes my blood momentarily freeze solid. A stunned silence follows while that impressive note floats through the Great Hall, then Opus takes up his part of the Vows in his warm tenor. His voice quavers slightly, and I cannot but pity him. Breaking the awed hush inspired by the demonstration of Harmony's intimidating range could not have been easy. I know I am glad that I am not in his scales right now.

Father half-chants a second blessing when Opus finishes, this one a blessing for union, for fertility and felicity, a blessing that has been sung at every wedding since the beginning of time. The completion of Father's second blessing completes the ceremony itself, and the mood in the Hall changes almost instantaneously from ceremonial to celebratory.

The servants move through the Great Hall, resetting it and bringing out the food. The chefs have been slaving over the food for days, with results that have never been before and would take a great deal of work to surpass in the future. A tower of clams that is just sized to fit through the entrance and must be carried by four servants—one at each corner of the square serving platter—is the centerpiece of the meal, but the other foods are no less impressive. Squid, it tentacles removed and mixed with kelp as a side dish, is a favorite of Harmony's; I discover, while indulging my taste for the queer clawed crustacean near the clam tower, that Opus and I share one thing. "Do you enjoy lobster?" he asks, noticing me as I pick the meat out of the tightly-shut, exoskeletal claw.

"It is my favorite food," I reply.

"Is it truly?" Opus wonders, looking surprised.

I turn my self-conscious gaze back to the claw in my hand. Lobster is generally thought inedible, or at least unworthy of the effort, as it is surrounded by a tough shell and contains very little meat. Hunting it takes days and is considered as dangerous, if not as deadly, as hunting shark; rarely does a lobster hunting party return without injury, but almost never is there a fatality. Lobster is, however, an important presence at the court's table, as it denotes rank—and servants enough to spare a lobster hunting party—and the chefs take special care to ensure that no court banquet or celebration goes without at least one lobster, cooked to a dull red over the kitchen's hot spring, in attendance. Of course, no one ever actually eats it, but it is an important symbol on the King's table.

"That is odd. Most shy away from eating lobster," Opus tells me unneededly. I nod, embarrassed, wishing to be on good terms with my oldest sister's beloved merman, but knowing that the half-eaten claw in my hands will not permit friendly relations. Then, to my complete surprise, Opus reaches out and breaks the second claw off the lobster. "Well. If they will not eat any lobster, then that leaves more for us!" he exclaims, cheerful, cracking the claw open and digging out the meat with his fingers.

I smile. "You enjoy lobster as well?"

"It is my favorite food," he replies, smiling in return, his mouth full of lobster meat. After a moment, he swallows and continues, "Forgive me. I am Opus, the…" He hesitates, a silly grin on his face. "…The luckiest merman in the ocean."

"Yes," I agree. "You just married my sister."

Opus starts and looks at me probingly, intense concentration evident in his deep green eyes. "Ah, Princess Aria," he says after a silent minute, "I did not recognize you. Forgive me, I should have known. But you look little like your sisters."

I bow my head, allowing my long hair to hide my face. How well I am aware of the differences between my sisters and me! "It has been a pleasure," I mutter through the cover of my hair. "Welcome to the family; we have never had a brother." I take his hand and kiss his fingers as a token of my greeting.

"I thank you," Opus returns, quite formally, mimicking my gesture of familial affection. "I have never before had a little sister; now I have five." He smiles. "What an amazing day! My merwoman, five little sisters, a father who is the King, and a grandmother—all are mine before evening!"

Harmony glides up from behind her merman. "Aria," she greets me. Her gaze falls on Opus's friendly grasp around my hand, and she beams. "I see you have already been introduced to my youngest sister, Opus."

Opus releases my hand and turns dazzled eyes on my beautiful sister. "I have," he acknowledges distractedly, his face brought very near hers. Both of them have forgotten me for each other, and I turn away to allow them the privacy they warrant. Intimacy of that manner, of a new couple setting eyes on each other for the first time as a couple, is a strictly private thing, and my having seen even just that initial moment embarrasses me. I do wonder, fleetingly, what it would feel like to have someone look at me that way, but I cross my arms over my chest, set my tongue firmly between my teeth, and banish such a thought—and its resulting vague emptiness—before any feelings show on my face.

Curiosity drives me one day to ask Harmony about how a mermaid knows when the right merman comes along. "It is a peculiar sensation," she replies, "as though the world has shifted, or the currents have changed; everything seemed to freeze and change and…shimmer somehow." She gestures helplessly. "It is impossible to describe, but, I promise you, you will never mistake it when it happens to you."

"When," I repeat, bitterness in my voice. "What you mean to say is 'if.'"

Harmony places a hand on my arm and kisses my forehead. "I said 'when,' and I mean 'when.' There is someone for you, little sister, and you will know who he is when—_when_, Aria, not if—you find him." With one finger under my chin, she tilts my face up until I am looking at her. "No mermaid has ever been wrong in this matter."


	5. Experiences

I spend the following year much as I had spent the previous ones: among my flowers, imagining the world of air and longing for the chance to see it with my own eyes. My imaginings now, however, are increasingly based on reality as Harmony becomes increasingly familiar with the humans' world and attempts to describe all the wonders she sees on her trips to the surface. She talks about singing fish that swim through the humans' version of kelp forests. The fish have only melodies in their songs, she adds, but they are quite pleasant to hear, even if their voices _are_ slightly less developed than a mermaid's. She talks about ships, which often excite her most after having explored so many sunken ones. She thinks it quite amazing that they can float so effortlessly, as we all know how easily they can sink. The one thing I find both baffling and irritating is that Harmony never investigates a floating ship to see a human. I know that there must be a hundred or more humans aboard a large ship, and I cannot understand how Harmony could swim past a ship with little more than a glance at its side. "They do not believe we exist," Harmony explains. "I have heard them speak to each other, and those that claim our presence in the water are ridiculed for such notions. The last thing I want to do is jeopardize us all by changing the humans' beliefs."

"So you have not seen a human?" I demand.

Harmony shakes her head. "I have seen ships and cities, sun and sky. I am content."

Melody, on the morning after he eighteenth Hatching Day, returns to the castle with a large smile on her face and in her eyes. "One does not need to see any human buildings or ships to be dazzled by the world of air. When I first broke the surface of the water, I was greeted by the most magnificent sight: the sun was slipping from the sky and into the sea. Everything from horizon to horizon was fiercely red, the color of Aria's flowers, and these…" Melody fades off a moment to search for a word and form a bulbous, irregular shape with her empty hands. "…These trapped clumps hung in the sky, black in the middle, red on the sides, and silver as Father's eyes along the edges. I saw a formation of the singing fish as well, and I do not understand how you, Harmony, can think their voices underdeveloped; when they sing together, their harmonies are quite as luxuriant as ours. The sun disappeared into the water soon after, and then the whole sky glittered, and I was perfectly happy to float and watch the glitterings."

Rhythm is as little help for my curiosity as Melody was. Hatched during the cold waters, her first experience of the surface is unique, consisting of water "as green as kelp, that roared and churned like an angry sea snake. I thought a storm was coming and was looking forward to the prospect of riding some unfamiliar currents, but it held off. The strangest thing was the way the air was moving."

"Air can move?" Andante asks.

"It was moving as violently as a storm current. For most of the night I could not see anything because either my hair was shoved in front of my face or the moving air made my eyes sting. I was glad when it slowed down enough that I could look around, and I saw some astounding things: enormous floating chunks of ice with craggy tops and submerged bases. I saw a ship once as well, but it did not come near the ice. Rather, it seemed to scurry away from the ice as though afraid of it, and I can imagine that it was a wise thing for the ship to do; ice chunks that size could likely sink it."

"And humans drown in water," I add, aloud but to no one in particular. "If their ships sink, so do they."

Rhythm shakes her head. "They must be strange creatures."

"Must be," I repeat, my voice beginning to crescendo with annoyance. "You had all night to see the surface, and yet you _still_ only speculate about humans. You three"—I direct my words to Harmony and Melody as well—"are the strangest creatures in this world or any other." My sisters are a mystery. All their lives, they have been looking forward to seeing the surface, but, when they finally can, they do not take advantage of their opportunities. Even Harmony, who has been going to the surface for more than three years now, has never once investigated a ship or ventured close to a humans city, and her reluctance is frustrating. If one of my sisters does not brave the dangers of finding a human, I will be forced to wait until another three years pass by, and I am not certain that I could tolerate the time. I have no hope in timid Allegro.

My non-expectations are not disappointed. Allegro spends her first night at the surface in the exact middle of the ocean, hours from even the merest speck of land or the possibility of a human ship. Her tale parallels that of Melody's first visit to the world of air; she describes the singing fish, the colored sky, the moving air. What impress her most, however, are the distances. "The surface stretches on forever in every direction. There are no rocks, no hills, no vegetation, nothing but small bumps in the water for as far as I could strain my eyes. The vastness is profound, nothing but sky and sea until it seems one could just drop straight off the edge of time and space and into some great and glorious unknown."

Once Allegro has finished her rhapsodizing, Andante takes me by the arm and draws me aside. "Our sisters are the strangest creatures," she comments. "All four of them have been to the surface—Harmony, Melody, and Rhythm have been repeatedly—but not one of them has bothered seeing a human."

"So I have realized," I agree, clenching my jaw against my impatience.

Andante twirls a strand of my hair around her finger. "It frustrates you?" she asks contemplatively.

"To the point of insanity."

"I will find a human on my first journey, for both our sakes." She begins to turn away, but pauses and looks at me from over her shoulder. "You hide everything so well, Aria; if I did not know you, I would have truly thought that Allegro's dull night actually interested you."

"It did," I object, embarrassed that Andante had seen through me so easily.

Andante nods without belief, an understanding smirk on her face. Her sympathy is almost as hard to tolerate as Harmony's, and I swim quickly past her toward my flowerbed.

As obnoxious as she can be, Andante has always kept her promises, and she returns the morning after her eighteenth Hatching Day with confusion in her silver eyes and a frown on her full lips. "They are strange beings indeed," she answers to my desperate, eager questions about what humans are like. "Do you remember that statue we found in that sunken ship?"

"Yes. Are they like that statue?" I clamor, interrupting but not caring about my manners.

"Well…" Andante hesitates, rubs her forehead, refuses to meet my eyes. "I saw humans last night."

"And?" I press, grabbing her hand and wringing her fingers in a grip that would choke a shark.

By the tone of her voice and the manner of her reluctance, I know that Andante is trying to soften a blow; what she does not understand is that nothing she could say could possibly be a blow. When my prying finally is rewarded, therefore, her reply only makes me grip her fingers more tightly and beg for more detailed information. "Humans," she says slowly, "are…ugly."

"Are they really? Ugly how?"

"Aria, you are hurting me." Andante shakes her hand loose from my grip. "Now put your eyes back in their sockets, and try for once in your life to keep them there. Did you misunderstand me? I said that humans are ugly. Their facial features are…big. Their noses are bulbous, their jaws are enormous, and all of them have creases on their foreheads and mouths and eyes and noses; they look as old as Grandmother, even the younger ones. The males have hair all over their arms and in their nostrils and ears, but they have very little on their heads. And their skin is…" Andante pauses again. She holds out her hand, palm up, and stares for a moment at it.

"Their skin…?" I remind her when it seems that she has completely lost her wave of thought.

She turns her hand over and closes her fingers into a fist. "It is not any color that I am familiar with, a strange combination of brown and red and yellow and blue. Their blood cannot but be a different color than ours. We are more different than I had thought." Frowning in disappointment, Andante begins to swim away.

"And their legs?" I call after her.

"Nothing but long chunks of their red-brown flesh that bend at only one joint in the middle," she calls back over her shoulder, turning only as she continues, "Our sisters were right in not seeking out a human; they may live with whatever beautiful images they may yet have, but I cannot anymore. I am sorry, Aria, for destroying your images as well." Andante retreats to her flowerbed.

Destroying? My older sister must have a strange opinion of me. I have lived for the past fifteen year all but dying from my curiosity about humans; one disillusioned sister could never, in all her three hundred years, talk me out of my interest. I hold out my hand and stare at it as Andante had her own hand, trying my hardest to imagine its silvery-grey skin darkening to an infeasible color of brown, red, yellow, and blue.

Soon it will be my turn, my turn to see the surface, my turn to hear the singing fish and watch the disappearing sun, my turn to find a ship at sea or a human on land. I look up at the dark, cold water that always hovers above the highest spire of the castle, in a direction I have looked several times a day since I had been two years old. Every one of those fifteen thousand times, I have tried to see the surface through all that dark water, but the surface had never been visible. Now, though still invisible through the dark water, the world of air has never felt closer.


	6. Edmund

Time passes slowly, far more slowly than time has ever passed before. My eldest sisters had stopped journeying much to the surface long ago, but even Andante has grown weary of the sights in the world of air before my Hatching Day. "It is pretty up there," she tells me, "but it is much more pleasant to be at home, where one can breathe easily and need not remember to keep one's mouth closed."

"Yes," Allegro agrees. "It must be much easier for you at home, Andante, as we all know how difficult it is for you to keep your mouth closed." As it is her turn to win an argument, Allegro is supremely confident in her victory. Her confidence is well-placed; Andante straightens indignantly and frowns, but her retort is nothing harsher than a glare. I roll my eyes, fighting back a smile.

However, despite their claims that the water is more pleasant than the air, it is not uncommon in the evening to see my five older sisters twine their arms around each other's waists and swim for the surface, leaving me to stare after them. The following morning's descriptions are no longer full of wonder and detail, and they leave much of my obsession unsatisfied. The desire has never been so fierce, so consuming, and it leaves me most nights without an appetite. The year prior to my eighteenth Hatching Day is the hardest, longest year of my life.

But even long years end, as the tides and currents bring in and then remove the cold water. Eventually, the flowers in my garden begin to bloom again, the few most obstinate striped-noses are forced out of the castle, and—not a minute too soon, but at least sixteen years too late—the morning of my eighteenth Hatching Day finally, finally, finally arrives.

The servants have been dashing around for days, polishing the Great Hall to the perfection it had been for my sisters' Hatching Days—no matter how peculiar other merfolk think me, I am still the daughter of the King. At first, many of them had balked away from decorating the Hall with the flowers from my garden, but Grandmother intervened and insisted. With a wariness I did not understand, the servants wove about half of my violently red flowers into garland and strung them across the transparent walls of the Hall; when questioned about the servants' anxiety, one merwoman shrugged and said that they simply were not accustomed to handling flowers of that color. "Humans have a color similar," she had added after a moment, "but they never touch it. If they do, it scalds them."

The Great Hall, regardless of the servants' reluctance, is carefully polished and fully decorated by the time my ceremony begins. I float between Father and Grandmother at the front of the Hall, under the shimmering golden arch. Grandmother is smiling, her near-visionless eyes focused on me; Father holds himself unnaturally erect to my left. When upright, my father is an imposing sight, his muscular shoulders and stern face looming over everyone else in the palace. I had managed to talk my way out of wearing the customary eight oysters on my tail—oysters, when clamped to one's scales, are incredibly painful—but there was nothing I could do about all the gold. My hair, therefore, is woven together with long, heavy strands of gold and a couple of the largest blossoms in my garden. "You look fantastic," Harmony assures me when she notices me fidgeting with the unaccustomed weight of my hair.

"Do not mock me, Harmony," I return, with more venom than I had intended.

"I am not mocking you; you look splendid. Perhaps you may even catch someone's eye tonight." Harmony smiles and winks, touching my arm before swimming back into the crowd.

The ceremony is tedious, full of the recitation of a new adult's responsibilities in society—remaining civil and loyal, honoring elders and respecting lesser, cherishing family, hatching and raising merchildren according to the laws, and so on. The entire ceremony is performed in a monotone chant said first by my father and then repeated by me, and the tuneless, rhythmic pulsing of words allows my mind to drift away toward the surface with little difficulty. I tremble with impatience.

As much as the ceremony drags, it is easily dealt with when compared to the party where I am entreated to dance and sing as though I have nothing else I would rather do. But, at last, the dim water starts to darken, indicating evening, and Grandmother beckons me to her side. "Well now, Aria, it is your turn at last," she says. "You are an adult, and it is time for you to see the world of air."

"Yes, Grandmother," I agree, my hands balling into fists.

"Come along, then." She leads me to the back of the Hall. "Remember, this first time is for the night only; return before day."

"I know, Grandmother. I will."

Grandmother turns toward me suddenly and grabs my shoulders with both hands. "Whatever you do, my dear girl, you must remember to breathe. You _will_ suffocate in air, as_—_" She stops herself, but I understand what she was about to say:

As my mother did.

"I know, Grandmother. I will remember to breathe, and I will not try living on air. May I go now?"

"Not yet." Grandmother plucks the flowers from my hair. "First, you must be properly adorned."

"No oysters, please," I beg. "They hurt so much."

"Beauty hurts, Aria. But you need not wear any oysters if you do not want to. Take this instead." She hands me an enormous, heavy wreath made of white flowers and inlaid with black pearls. Though I groan, a gaudy wreath is far preferable to even the tiniest oyster, so I bow my head to allow Grandmother to place it on me. My own red flowers suited me better. "There," Grandmother declares as I straighten. "You are ready."

She does not finish before I am streaking out of the Great Hall and up toward the surface. The dark water that permanently hovers above the castle's tallest spire is cold, colder than any water I have ever before felt, but so little of my mind is focused on the journey that I almost do not notice it. I know where I am going and where I must swim to get there. Paying attention to the journey is necessary only for returning, and I will trust my sense of direction to bring me back. Instead, I allow my thoughts to float over what I know about the surface, what I hope to experience, and, most of all, humans. I have only the memory of that beautiful marble statue and Andante's disappointed descriptions on which to base my images, and those two things do not agree with each other. It would be best, I decide, to reserve thought, opinion, and image until I can see a human for myself.

The dark water lightens appreciably and warms by degrees after a while. There is ground here as well, but the sand covering it is no longer deep blue; instead, it is light yellowish-brown and covered in slimy green seaweed. Small colored fish dart away from me through the seaweed, moving hastily, as though being pursued by a predator. I am otherwise unnoticed by the aquatic life closer to the surface, save for a strange look given to me by one dozing dolphin.

Eventually, as I am looking toward the world of air, a faint disc of light becomes distinguishable from the reflective water. This disc becomes my target. Because it is silver, I do not think it is the sun, which has always been yellow or red in stories of the surface, but I do not doubt that is must be part of the glitterings in the sky. The water becomes warmer, brighter, less heavy, as I continue upward, and, when the disc I am swimming for gains definitive edges, I know I am close. Closing my lips around a mouthful of water, I thrash my tail, hard, one last time and throw myself from the sea. I fall back more quickly than expected; the suddenness of the drop loosens my stomach from its place the way a storm current does. Excited, I try again.

For several minutes, I do nothing but throw myself into the air and laugh when my stomach rolls around; the sensation, though slightly sickening, is exciting, akin to playing in the strong, unpredictable currents dredged up by large storms. Soon, however, the childish amusement wanes, and I settle down. There is only one thing I want to do tonight. I will have another two hundred and eighty years to look at the sky and the sun and the singing fish. Tonight, my only interest is to see a human.

Thus reminded, I lower my head, on the prowl for a ship or some land. I swim steadily, but not so quickly that the other sights of the surface are completely lost on me; there is little to see, as there are continually less glitterings in the increasingly heavy sky. The distances are the most impressive, vast and empty, clear until it seems I could just swim off the edge of the world.

I search for a while, until the silver disc of light disappears behind the thick greyness of the sky and the smooth surface of the water breaks up into small swells. The music is the first thing I notice, strange, throbbing, dissonant music coming from what, when I draw closer, turns into a hulking shape in the water. Three colossal trunks rise up from the shape and pierce upwards into the sky; attached to each trunk are dozens of sheets that shine faintly white in the darkness. A ship. Excitement bubbles into my throat, creating a lump around which breathing becomes difficult. A ship this size probably has a hundred or more humans on it. I duck my head beneath the water and hurry toward it. At my approach, the ship begins to glow, dimly at first, but quickly brighter until looking at it hurts my eyes. I know that human buildings glow in darkness; I had no idea that ships do as well.

A large swell of water lifts me up to the side of the ship, and I cling to the rough planking. My body is heavier out of the water, and only by immense force and sheer willpower do I manage to inch my way up the side to look onboard.

The huge ship is crowded with humans. Some of them are blowing into long, thin silver tubes, arranging and rearranging their fingers over several holes along the tops of the tubes and thereby changing the notes coming from them. Other humans are hitting their palms against boxes that create a beat deep enough to throb like another heart in my breast. Raucous singing, poorly done, accompanies the music-making objects. Many of the humans spring into impromptu dances and twirl each other around in unrehearsed and fairly violent circles, at points in the music where such twirls make little sense.

Humans are not as ugly as Andante told me they were. Their skin is the strangest color I have ever seen, mostly yellow-brown and splotched with red. Many of their faces are old, with skin that is wrinkled and hard, and some of their features are peculiar—I have never seen a nose that long or eyes that small—but all of them are laughing, cheerful, and apparently content. They are covered in clothing from collarbone down, the males in a type that wraps around each leg individually, the females in a type that flows straight to the ship and hides their legs. Some arms are bared from finger to elbow, but most have clothing all the way to the wrists. In the light that I see now comes from dozens of small glowing boxes, the whole scene looks beautiful and festive. I grip my handhold on the ship, fighting back the surge of longing to be part of those unpracticed, violent dances and poorly-sung, yet strangely heartfelt, songs.

The music ends abruptly, and all the humans praise it generously by hitting their palms together and cheering. Then, with hardly a breath, the music and twirling strikes up once more.

My eyes, though dazzled by color and aching from the light, refuse to veer from the dancers. Humans whirl around and around this ship with neither reason nor direction, and yet they never bump into each other and always seem to know where they are headed. One couple, the male much younger than his female companion, pass so close to me that, had I stretched out my hand, I might have touched them. I realize, as I look up into the faces of the very near dancers, that I will never again be so close to a human.

All at once, the humans' wild twirling stops—not as though they had decided to finish dancing, but as though time has come to a halt. A faint shimmer with no obvious origin diffuses across the ship, turning all the humans into truly magical beings. They appear to notice nothing unusual; their smiles remain fixed in place, their eyes still alight with enjoyment. Baffled and wondering if I have actually turned mad, I scan the area, eventually lifting my eyes to the couple that is still within my reach should I choose to touch them.

And I know. In less time than it takes for my heart to beat once, my world rearranges, refocuses. Everything I have thought and felt and imagined for the past eighteen years has been building toward this moment, this moment when I first see him and _know_.

Movement continues as though there had been no break; he twirls away from me without realizing what has happened.

He is near my age, perhaps just older than I, covered in clothing that shames the reds and blues of the castle gardens. His hair is very short, not even to his shoulders where it is longest, and very black. Taller than my father and almost as broad, he cuts a heart-stopping figure against the lights in the ship. He has a pleasant face, a square jaw, and an oversized smile. His eyes are blacker than night.

The music ends again, but does not start back up immediately. Instead, one short, fat human steps forward, turns, and addresses the others. "How about another round of applause for our musicians tonight," he suggests; the other humans smack their palms together and cheer. "We are sorry that we are not yet home for this grand occasion, but a birthday is a birthday, and we all wish a very happy eighteenth birthday to our own Prince Edmund."

The other humans crowd around him, smacking their palms together in the loudest applause yet and making high-pitched whines by pursing their lips and blowing air. His older female partner embraces him. She is a magnificent human, tall and straight and statuesque. Her dark hair is piled elegantly on the top of her head, and her dark eyes are attentive and interested.

I fold my arms on the top of the ship and balance my chin on them, watching all with a hollow feeling in my stomach, only faintly aware that my breath is nearly gone. Birthday, I think. Then humans are born like whales and not hatched like merfolk. If tonight is his eighteenth birthday, then we are, in fact, the same age exactly. And what a fine name—Edmund. Prince Edmund.

"Thank you all," Edmund says above the ruckus. "Now, Lord Thomas, perhaps you could settle a rumor that has been circulating this ship for some time." There is no music in his voice, none of the gentle lilt that marks the merfolk's voices. But it has a cadence to it that reminds me of the pounding boxes, a force and passion and life like I have never heard in a voice before.

The short human turns slightly pinker in the face and puffs up his meaty shoulders as though fully aware of his own importance. "I shall do my best, sir. What is the rumor that needs settling?"

Edmund smiles broadly. "There is a rumor going around that we have fireworks prepared for tonight."

The other humans shout with joy. "That's true," Lord Thomas admits despite the slumping of his shoulders. "Shall we begin?" The crowd shouts again, and everyone looks skyward.

Curious, I follow their lead and twist carefully—my perch on the ship is somewhat precarious—until I am also looking at the sky. The prior heaviness has sunk even lower and turned oppressive. Far in the distance, light flickers; the humans do not notice. Their attention is drawn straight upward.

With a high whine, a small package trailing sparks leaps into the sky. Then the package explodes. An enormous circle of glittering colored lights rips through the air, releasing a sound that rattles my bones. My head whirls with noise, and I gasp without thinking. Air rushes through me; I choke, forced at last to drop from the side of the ship. The blast of another firework is audible even under water, deeper and somewhat muted. I peer from the water, leaving my mouth below the surface, and watch the fireworks as they explode, one after another, in all the colors and patterns I could ever imagine. Humans, I believe, have a deep fascination with colors. Every one of their reds and golds and greens and blues make me embarrassed for the colors in the sea, embarrassed that I used to think that the world of water was vibrant.

During the fireworks display, the swells begin to grow, and the air begins to move as Rhythm had described years ago. The moving air catches a strand of my hair and pushes it around to tickle my face. The sea groans from somewhere deep within itself. A storm is on its way.

The fireworks cease after a while, and the ship starts forward, crashing heavily over the bulging swells. I follow it, unwilling to leave him until I must, concerned suddenly for his safety. The humans should not be taking their ship into a storm.

Several minutes into their movement, another fireworks display begins, this time with jagged white lights and a more delayed roar. Here, the swells are nearly as high as the ship itself, and they curl under themselves, bubbling and foaming as they go. The humans had cheered and commented on the colored lights, but the only noise coming from the ship for these lights are hurried shouts about rigging and masts. The moving air is howling like an injured whale, so loudly it almost masks the crackling of the fireworks, and, to my surprise, water gushes down from the air. Far colder than the sea, this driving air-water is uncomfortable; however, escaping it would require leaving the surface. I float on the swells, blinking my eyes against the howling air and falling water, still able to admire the ragged streaks of fireworks and the swirling eddies of water drops.

The ship rides the storm with a grace not expected for such a hulking thing. It plunges and soars with the swells, barely even flinching when one foamy crest smashes against its side. Seeing the swells smash into its sides makes me anxious. The ship looks solid, but my world is filled with evidence of how quickly a solid-seeming human ship can sink.

Noises—a low moan and a sharp snap—interrupt the rhythm of the fireworks and falling water. One of the three trunks tilts toward the sea. Humans are scurrying around onboard, screaming to each other and climbing into tiny ships that are, once full, dropped into the swells. The beam wavers, swinging independently of the ship, then, groaning, crashes into the water. Without it, the ship loses buoyancy. Foamy crests shove it from side to side, breaking over the top, and, as serenely and beautifully as it dove through the swells, the humans' ship slips beneath the surface, strewing debris across the water.

The humans themselves are packed onto three tiny ships. These ships lurch and bounce in what appears to be an uncomfortable manner, but, with long poles that flatten on one end, the humans are capable of propelling themselves independently of the howling air. Most are staring, horrified, at the sea and the few smashed remains of their magnificent ship. One is screaming. At first, the female seems only to be yelling from the terror of her experience. However, as I inch closer—carefully avoiding the writhing planks in the water, any of which could break my arms—her screams become words, and the words become a name.

"Edmund, Edmund, Edmund!" she cries.

The prince! In all the excitement, I had lost sight of him. But surely, he must be on one of the little ships. I scan the humans' faces. He is not there. I swim carefully through the debris; many of the pieces are large enough to support a human. I see nothing but a couple strands of stirred-up seaweed. If he is under the water…if he drowns…

Panicked by the thought, I dive into the water. Father would be horrified if I were to come too close to a human, but I do not care. Every bit of everything in me is telling me one thing, and one thing only: Edmund must not die.

Deeper and deeper I swim, growing more frightened as each moment passes. Then, finally, some five lengths below the surface, I see him. He is trying to reach the surface, but the powerful storm current has him in its stubborn grip, and he, unable to cope long in water, only sinks further with each ineffectual stroke. His legs and arms slow, and a bubble of air escapes his lips; he is losing consciousness, very quickly. I dart toward him, wrap my arms around him, and, with one sharp thrash of my tail, break us both free of the current.

Aware that many of the planks from the ship could seriously injure either of us, I traverse the debris very carefully and am glad when we clear it unscathed. Keeping Edmund's head above the water makes swimming awkward; therefore, once the water is free of ship bits, I cease trying to move and allow the swells to push us where they will.

I stroke back the wet hair from his face, momentarily relieved of my fear. Edmund is safe, but I will eventually have to find some land, or he will not be safe for long. He can no more live in water than I can live on air. I do not know where the nearest land is; I only hope that the swells are moving toward it. If not… I break that thought off before it has a chance to come to its conclusion. Edmund will not die. I will not let him.

After some howling and a few more ragged fireworks, the storm blows itself out. The swells shrink, the falling water abates, and, one by one, the glitterings in the sky return. The night turns lovely, with temperatures far warmer than the dim water in the castle and moving air that only ripples at the water and pushes around tendrils of my hair. The air is as cool and comforting on my damp face as Harmony's fingers.

Edmund still had not regained consciousness, and worry is again prickling through me. He is not dead, I reassure myself; I can still feel his breath, soft and rhythmic against my skin. But still there is no sight of land.

Dawn breaks over the world of air with all the magnificence Melody had ascribed to dusk, and the sunlight infuses a ruddy glow into Edmund's face without waking him. I am swimming now, awkwardly, still keeping Edmund's head out of the water while actively searching for land. In the furthest recess of my mind, something nudges me, trying to remind me that I had promised to return to the water before day, that my family is probably frantic because I have not yet returned. I ignore it all. The human in my arms is far more important.

By the time the sun has grown hot enough to scald, I find it: land, in the form of a dry, sandy bank that inclines gently from a deep bay. A few singing fish mutter together in some unseen place. Beyond the sand stands a huge, delicately green human version of a kelp forest, ruffling in the gently moving air and, peeking though the branches, the grey stone turret of some human establishment. I do not know whether it is a castle or not, but I hope it is occupied. This, I reason, is the perfect place to leave Edmund. Someone will find him, or he will wake up and go to the building.

I hold my breath and drag Edmund clumsily onto the sand, wanting to be gentle but finding movement in air to be slower, harder, and much, much heavier. Air is a strange substance, moving when one does not expect it to, thinner than water but far more difficult to manage in, weighing down one's body while perking up one's ears. And yet, Edmund and those like him live and thrive in air. I linger by his side, longing for a way to remain here.

The sun bears down, scalding and bright, on my pale skin and burning eyes; the sand is hot and abrasive on my arms and tail, nearly as painful as is a clamped-on oyster. Worse, I realize suddenly that my breath is nearly gone. Merfolk need the water, I remind myself. I loathe leaving, but I can no longer tolerate the air. I scrabble off the sand, breathe deeply in the warm water, then turn back and swim as close to the land as I can manage, waiting for either Edmund to wake or help to come.

I have only just found a position that keeps all by my eyes and the top of my head concealed beneath the water when the human establishment begins to clang, loud, deep, resonant clangs that put me in mind of last night's storm. For a full minute, the clangs continue, rhythmic, slow, each one allowing its predecessor to fade before striking anew. A clump of three female humans emerge from amongst the forest as the final clang echoes across the water. The females wear clothing that is simple when compared to the humans on Edmund's ship. It falls straight from the shoulders, with a loose gathering at the waist, and is as white as polished marble. The females giggle softly with each other and kick at the sand.

One of the females stops abruptly, a look of astonishment on her face as she sees Edmund. The shock is quickly replaced with concern, and she hurries forward to kneel at his side. "Sisters!" she exclaims. "Look here!"

The others obey. "A man!" They giggle like guilty merchildren caught in misdeed.

The one female lays her hand on Edmund's forehead. She is a ravishing creature, graceful and petite, with a full head of dark brown, gently curling hair and large eyes as blue as the sky directly above my head. "Poor fellow. He must've been shipwrecked," she says. "Roberta, Hannah, fetch Sister Mary; he has probably swallowed a good deal of seawater and may need medical attention."

One of the other females takes a hesitant step forward. "He isn't…_dead_, is he, Isabella?" she wonders. One of her fingers touches her forehead, chest, and both shoulders in a quick, automatic motion as she speaks.

"Mercy, Hannah! No, he isn't. But find Sister Mary just the same. Go on! I'll wake him up." She turns her attention back to Edmund. "Can you hear me? You must wake up. You are safe."

Edmund flinches, moans, then—thanks be to all things good!—opens his eyes. "Where am I?" he asks, his voice ragged.

"Shh," the female replies. "All's well, and you are safe. Can you stand?"

Edmund pushes his body erect, then pulls his legs beneath him and struggles to his feet. He wobbles and begins to fall back, but the female catches him. "Easy now," she instructs, pulling one of his arms across her shoulders and holding him securely around the waist. In this manner, they move together—slowly, accommodating Edmund's stumbling pace—toward the shelter of the kelp forest and stone building.

The last thing I see before they disappear is Edmund's completely exhausted but profoundly grateful smile, directed at the beautiful human female.


	7. Longings

Grandmother begins scolding me the moment I cross the castle threshold. "Where have you been? I told you—told you explicitly—to be home before day. Do you have any idea what your absence has put me and your father and sisters through? We thought you had suffocated or gotten lost or injured." She breathes deeply, her gills flaring. Her near-blind eyes blaze at me. I have never seen Grandmother so angry. "Aria, are you even listening to me?"

I am not. Though I hear every word that pours out of Grandmother's raging mouth, my mind is still on the surface, at the beach, and I am not processing more than the tone with which Grandmother is speaking. "I am sorry, Grandmother," I apologize. I had known that I would need to explain my lateness and at least had the foresight to prepare a reason for it. "I swam further than I realized last night." The lie tickles my lips on its way out, but it falls smoothly from my tongue.

Grandmother is not appeased. "And how did you manage that? You are a mermaid. Mermaids do not lose track of themselves _or_ the distances they have traveled!"

These words find their mark. I have spent a long time learning not to care that most of the kingdom considers me not quite right, and I am usually successful at ignoring the comments made to that effect. But never before has one been uttered by a family member. Never before has Grandmother herself suggested that I am odd. Her words pierce like a spear wound; my expression, controlled and remote just a moment ago, crumples. "Perhaps the strange ones do," I mutter through my clenched teeth, turning sharply and swimming away.

I can no longer function normally. My already-slim appetite decreases, and my already-faded interest in the world of water dulls. My life is grim, colorless, miserable. Morning after morning, I swim to the beach where I had left Edmund, always hoping against reality that I might see him. I see the delicate color of the forest change to a deep, robust green. I watch the tides move up and down the sand and feel the sun grow hotter with each passing day. The singing fish increase in numbers, and their songs become more intricate. Some days, the sky is heavy and grey; some days, water drops from the air. Occasionally, jagged white fireworks rip through the sky. But I never see Edmund.

Humans sometimes meander down the sands. Some are old, some are young, but all are always female. Once, not long after my Hatching Day, the threesome who had found Edmund come to the sand. The one called Isabella—the beautiful one who had helped him off the beach—walks with her head tilted down and a sad frown on her lips. The other two bounce around her, clearing trying to cheer her. "It's too nice a day to spend moping," one says, gesturing broadly toward the sky and sea, "and we have the whole day to spend however we wish. Who knows when Mother Agnes will give us another day off?"

Isabella looks up at her two companions and smiles slightly. "I'm sorry, I've been horrible company these past few days. It's just…" She throws her hands out, palms up, in what appears to be some kind of surrender.

The other female, the one who had not spoken before, pats Isabella's shoulder sympathetically. "We know, Isabella, we know. The life of a nun really isn't right for you, is it?"

A rueful smile creeps over the beautiful girl's face. "It's better than my other options," she says after a moment, her tone weary. She then takes her friends by the hands and tows them toward the edge of the water, where they spend a long time digging in the sand and talking about seemingly everything—warm gruel, foxes, books, lessons, Mother Agnes—except the fate of the prince left in their care.

Only when the building begins to clang do the three females stand and brush off their long white clothing. "Suppertime," one comments, starting toward the kelp forest at the far edge of the beach. The other friend follows her, but Isabella remains at the water's edge; when her companions ask her if she is going with them, she shoos them off with a small wave of her hand.

The moment she is alone, the smile she had worn while in company drops off her face, and she stares out at the horizon, her eyes squinting with concentration, as though she is hoping to find something she had lost. But there is nothing on the horizon, save a few rocks scattered out from the two points of land that make up the bay; the intense expression on her face compels me to sweep the horizon for myself to ensure that nothing is coming up behind me. Isabella sighs and closes her eyes briefly, both actions saying more loudly than her voice ever could that she is disappointed by what she did not see. When she opens her eyes again, her gaze falls directly on me.

Our eyes lock for a single moment, just long enough for her back to stiffen and her eyes to widen, before I spin around and dive into the cold waters of the open sea.

I spend little time in the castle, returning only to keep my sisters and grandmother from worrying too much about me. I eat rarely, and even then only when someone—usually Harmony—presses food toward my face. I have not tended my flowerbed since my Hatching Day, and it is showing the effects of neglect. The flowers are sprawling from their circle, their stems twisting around each other and around the weeds that have begun to sprout, timidly at first, then more boldly as they realize they will not be pulled up.

Every one of my sisters has confronted me about my depression, asked me what is wrong; I have not had the heart—or the courage—to explain.

Andante, as impossible to put off as ever, continues to press me after even Harmony has given up. One day, she catches up with me as I am leaving the castle. "Aria," she calls, hurrying after me, "where are you going?"

"To the surface," I reply.

"Why?"

"I am eighteen years old now, Andante. I may go to the surface as often as I please," I snap.

"I know. But, Aria…" She takes my hand, gentle as she never has been before. "Aria, we are all so worried about you."

I extract my hand from her fingers and avoid her gaze. "I do not need your concern."

"That is too bad, because you have it anyway." Her temper is flaring, and she grabs my chin and forces me to look at her. "What is the matter with you, little sister? You are never home, you hardly eat, and you have not touched your flowers since before your Hatching Day. Do not tell me I am imagining your behavior," she interrupts when I open my mouth to tell her just that. "Your flowers are half-dead and full of weeds. Aria, you have taken care of those flowers like nothing else mattered since you were seven. It is not healthy for you to continue this way; you will starve—or suffocate—soon!"

"Let me go," I order, struggling to remove my face from Andante's painful grip.

"Not until you tell me the truth. What happened the night of your Hatching Day?"

Something, some resistance to the story I had felt all this time, breaks in the forceful concern Andante expresses, and I tell her. I tell her everything: about the ship, the fireworks, the humans' insane twirling. I stumble a bit as I explain about Edmund, about how everything had frozen and shimmered the first time I had seen him. I tell her about the storm and the sinking ship, and about how I had rescued Edmund from drowning, only to watch him walk off with the beautiful female. "I knew," I add after finishing the story. "Just like Grandmother said. Humans do not freeze mid-twirl any more than we do. But Grandmother never explained what happens to a mermaid who knows and cannot make her merman understand. He is not a merman, Andante. He is a human. Grandmother never mentioned that it could happen with a human."

"I cannot imagine how I would manage if Staccato had not understood," Andante mutters to herself. Staccato is Andante's merman. They found each other just after my Hatching Day, and their wedding is scheduled for the early days of the cold water season. "That explains your recent behavior," she continues to me. "But do you think it wise_—_"

"Wise?" I shriek, throwing out my arms in helpless frustration. "_Wise_? Andante, I am in love with a _human_! A _human_! Do not speak to me about wisdom; I have no more control over it than I have over a shark bent on devouring me." Passion brings unnatural warmth to my face and causes my entire body to tremble uncontrollably. A few gulps of water, however, put me back in charge of my volume. "I do not even know what has become of him or where he is," I add more softly, despair coloring my tone.

"Worry not, little sister," Andante instructs, laying her cool hand on my hot cheek. "I shall help you see your human again." And, for all her faults, Andante is nothing if not honest.

--

Harmony, leading my other sisters, confronts me the next evening. "Andante says you are in love with a human," she tells me without preamble, her brow furrowed as though she wants me to laugh away such a notion. I remain silent. "Aria, it is not true, is it?" When I still refuse to deny it, she sighs. "You must have imagined it."

"Imagined what?" I wonder.

Harmony forms some sort of useless shape with her hands. "_Knowing_. It does not work with a human. It cannot. You must have been wrong."

"No mermaid has ever been wrong in this matter," I reply, spitting back the words both she and Grandmother had used long ago.

Harmony sighs again, wearily. "We know where a Prince Edmund is said to reside. Come with us, little sister, and we will show you. Then, perhaps you can overcome this fantasy of yours and be happy again." She wraps her arm about my waist; Melody does the same and also holds Rhythm; Rhythm, Allegro, and Allegro, Andante. Together, so entwined, my sisters and I swim upward and northward.

We swim for a long time, swiftly, steadily, and silently. Harmony radiates disapproval but says nothing. The only noise save the swishing of our tails is the occasional quiet bickering of Allegro and Andante, as one holds too tightly, and the other pinches her in retaliation. The night is half over when we break the surface. A huge, craggy outcropping of rock obscures any view of land. "There is a human castle just around there," Harmony says, pointing to the left of the rock. "Go and see if it is the home of your prince. And, Aria…" She puts her hand on my arm. I turn to face her. "Be back before midday; none of us want to experience again the fright you gave us the morning after your Hatching Day."

I nod my consent, eager to pass the rock and see the shore. Harmony begins to turn away, then stops suddenly and flings her arms around me. "Take care," she mumbles as she pulls away. Nodding to my other sister, she dives back into the water. Melody, Rhythm, and Allegro follow her; Andante pauses to touch my hand. "Remember that we love you," she says.

"I know. Thank you," I reply. Andante smiles and hurries after the sight of Allegro's tailfin. With one hard gulp to conjure up some courage, I swim past the rock.

A castle sits high on the top of a sheer cliff, glowing from the inside. It is made from pure white marble; each of the dozen spires is tipped in gold. Huge windows release light onto the water, light that is then reflected back from the still, black surface. Marble steps with a golden railing curve from the sea, up the cliff, and into the castle. Faint strains of human music are audible through the walls. The effect is altogether enchanting, like the setting of some fanciful tale, and I am gripped with the fierce desire to be a part of it, to be able to walk up those steps and into that magical glowing castle.

For a short while, I cruise around the castle, admiring it. The cliff it sits on juts out from the surrounding shoreline, allowing a swimmer a clear view of the front three-quarters of the palace. Eventually, however, my thoughts turn again to the reason I am here. Even a castle as magnificent as this one would have little significance if it is not Edmund's. I had seen what appeared to be a drainage stream on the far side of the cliff; it is up this stream that I now travel.

The flow of water moves toward the ocean, and I must work to swim against it, but it is a short swim. The little stream opens into a large, smooth pool of water, surrounded in three directions by a lush garden containing flowers of every color and shape imaginable. The castle guards the forth side. Through clear windows, I can see humans in fine clothing, all twirling and twisting around each other in practiced, prearranged motions.

Above the windows, sticking out from the castle wall, is a platform with a thick, carved-legged railing. And standing on the platform, his arms resting on the railing, his hands loosely folded, his eyes roving over every inch of the garden, is Edmund.

For a long moment, I forget that I am a mermaid. I forget about my tail, my scales, my gills. I forget what Harmony had said about how humans think us only empty folklore. I forget my family, my flowers, my whole world. I forget everything, except knowing that I belong with him.

We are from different worlds, I remind myself fiercely. Worlds that cannot reconcile their inhabitants. Land and sea. Air and water. I would suffocate trying to breathe air, and Edmund would drown trying to live in water. I hug myself tightly, pushing away such thoughts. He does not even know that I exist. If I were to be with him, I would be the one who would have to—

I squeeze my eyes shut, interrupting the thought before it has a chance to finish. Such ideas, though undeniably alluring, would bring nothing but trouble.

A second person—the older female with whom Edmund had danced on his birthday—appears on the platform. "It's a beautiful night," she says, her voice reverent.

"The moon will be full soon," Edmund replies.

The female glances at the nearly-round silver disc in the sky. The moon. I try the new word softly and tingle with pleasure at its sound. "I'm going to bed," the female remarks after a moment. "You've had a long day as well; come inside and get some sleep."

"I will. Goodnight."

The female pats his shoulder affectionately before returning to the castle. Edmund remains a few minutes longer, staring down at the water, brooding silently over his thoughts. I watch him, my head below the surface to remain unseen, my own thoughts a jumble of joy and sorrow. Every flare of my gill slits, every flick of my tailfin, reminds me that my desires are ridiculous, my wishes impossible. A small smile tugs at the corner of Edmund's lips. He straightens and turns back into the castle.


	8. The Decision

I return to the castle on land the next night and the nights following that. Edmund, I soon discover, is often out on the structure by the water—I hear it once referred to as a "balcony"—when the moon is rising. It is a long swim from my father's castle to Edmund's, but I care nothing for the distance. I would swim all day for the chance to peer from the water and see Edmund in his own silent thoughts, to see him smile to himself whenever those thoughts please or amuse him. He frequently has company, often the older female, who I learn is his mother. But I like best the nights when he is alone, when he leans upon the railing of the balcony and gazes out toward the moon or the glittering points of light called "stars," when his black eyes travel across the garden and water. On those nights, my thoughts whirl out of my control, trying to convince me that there is a solution, a way to get what I so desperately want. My sisters, for perhaps the first time in their lives, had been wrong. Knowing where Edmund's castle is does not end my fantasies; rather, it encourages them, nurtures them.

Every night, I grow more and more tired of doing nothing but watching and wanting. There has to be some way to end all the longing, some way for me to leave the sea, some way for me to become human.

It is at that moment that I stumble across the solution I have desired. Become human. Be able to walk up those marble steps into that beautiful golden-lit castle. My fingers tremble with sudden excitement. There is a way to do it; there is someone in the sea with that kind of magic…

It is a horrible idea, horrible because it is forbidden and horrible because it is possible. I shake it loose and will it never to return.

But the notion refuses to leave me alone. Each night spent watching the humans twirl around in their marble castle, watching Edmund talk to his mother or gaze at the garden, brings the notion more powerfully to mind. Become human. Be a part of Edmund's magical world. It would be simple, really. There is someone, someone beyond the hot springs of my father's realm, who could help. All I would need to do is reach her alive…

…Which is almost as impossible as the situation in which I am already trapped.

Every moment I spend beneath the surface after that moment I spend keenly aware of the direction and distance to the hot springs that mark the boundaries of my father's kingdom. I often find myself staring distractedly out the castle windows, my mind caught on the possibility of becoming human, and one of my sisters must shake me before my thoughts return even briefly to my current surroundings.

It is a horrible idea, I remind myself, more than once. It is forbidden and dangerous; even just surviving the trip is unlikely. Stories say that I would suffocate from the water's excessive salt content, never minding the very real possibility of being eaten for trespassing. But nothing I do, nothing I tell myself, is effective enough to drive the idea out of my head for more than a moment, because just the thought of being human, being with Edmund, for even one day—one minute—is irresistible.

As a tactic of distraction, I begin to engage Grandmother in conversations, begging out of her every bit of information she has about humans, hoping that knowing more might make them seem less appealing. "If they do not drown, do humans die?" I ask one day.

"They do, and their lifetime is even shorter than ours; a human of eighty years is an old human indeed." She smiles slightly before continuing. "But they have a…something that we do not posses. They call it a 'soul.'"

"What is a 'soul'?" I ask. I know a few human words from overhearing conversations between Edmund and his mother while I hide in the pool of water called the "pond." I know that "clouds" are what cover the stars on the heavy grey nights, and the falling air-water that comes from them is called "rain." But neither Edmund nor his mother have ever used the word "soul."

"I do not fully know," Grandmother admits. "It is a piece of a human that cannot be seen or touched, that is immortal. When we die here in the sea, we only dissolve into sea foam. A human, on the contrary, does not die—or, at least, his soul does not. It lives on, in a place we merfolk will never see."

"Why do we not have that kind of immortality?" I wonder, glancing at my tail. Never before, in all these long days since my Hatching Day, have I ever felt further from the things I want. Never before have my tail and gills felt so strange, so wrong.

My feelings must have shown on my face more clearly than I realize, for Grandmother answers my question in a voice that is almost scolding. "Merfolk were not granted souls at the creation of the worlds, and it is foolish to wish for more than your given lot."

I have heard that second part at least twice from my sisters and grandmother since my Hatching Day, and yet it never seems, even now, to make its intended impact. Foolish or not, I _do_ wish for more than my given lot. I always have, right from the earliest moments I can remember. I have always wanted to see more and know more and be more than I have before, and those desires have always prevented me from being happy, for every half-witted mermaid knows that happiness lies only in contentment.

Contentment. I cannot even imagine what it must feel like. I have never been content with anything: not my surrounding, my circumstances, or even myself. I am a daughter of the King, a princess raised with all the comforts and civilities my position could possibly grant me, but I have never been happy. All I ever do is wish to be out of this water, out of this world. I want to walk, to feel the sensation of breathing without gills. I want to ride on a ship. I want to twirl madly, without reason or direction, to the sound of the humans' raucous singing and strange music-makers.

And I want to do it all with Edmund.

That forbidden and entirely alluring solution springs to my mind now, far more insistent than it ever has been before. Everything I want could be within my grasp; all I need to do is reach out for it. I know where I could go to become human. There is, after all, one being in this ocean whose powers are the stuff of legends: the sea witch, Dressela.

It would bring me only sorrow and pain to go to the sea witch. Dressela would never make me human without payment, and the stories say that she is not bought by money. She requires power, or blood. I swallow convulsively at the thought. I have never been comfortable with the sight of blood.

Yet, as I look around at the castle, the gardens, the fish, I realize that I could never be happy here. I do not belong in the water; the past eighteen years are proof enough of that. I am not a good mermaid, not a good sister or daughter or granddaughter. I want things this world could never provide: legs, air, a chance to find a place in a world where I might belong. And, above all else, there is the need to be with Edmund, a need that any mermaid who has ever _known_ would understand.

I glance toward the castle again. Grandmother, satisfied that she has answered all my questions for today, has drifted back to her apartment. The rest of my family is elsewhere, either tending the gardens or accepting petitions from merfolk across the sea. I would not be missed for hours if I were to leave now.

Gulping a few breaths for courage, I dart away from the castle grounds, determined to reach the sea witch before my resolve begins to waver.


	9. The Sea Witch

Stories about Dressela the sea witch have thrived for time almost beyond memory. Told mostly to wayward merchildren to make them behave, they have been embellished and expanded on for a lifetime or more, until most of them are likely far from true. There are, however, a few known facts: Dressela does exist, and she is the most powerful being in the sea, more powerful than even my father. She rarely leaves her cave. She works alone and lives with only a few favorite sea serpents. She is not exactly evil, but neither is she good; if she is paid, she performs what services she is obliged to perform. If that means destroying someone or helping someone else, it does not matter to the witch. Beyond these know facts, however, most stories are conjecture, for few merfolk who go to see her ever return.

I know about the hot springs and the vast grey sands of the witch's domain. I know about the hot, salty water that makes breathing difficult. I have heard stories about the whirlpools, some that can rip a mermaid apart, and others that fling their captives into a fathomless abyss. But these horrors are more frightening than I could imagine. Gazing into the abyss is like looking at death itself, and the surrounding whirlpools seem to reach out to grab me. Once, my tailfin skims too close to one of the grabbing, whirling circles of water, and I come dangerously close to being ripped to bits; only a few panicked strokes forward prevent a very messy death. As it is, the bottom edge of my tailfin is painfully torn, and the excessively salty water makes it sting with every motion. But, by luck or miracle, I reach the entrance to Dressela's cave alive and essentially unharmed. The thought of wondering how long that will last floats through my mind. I banish it quickly before I lose the last bit of my waning courage.

The entrance to the sea witch's cave is said in stories to be guarded by two great sea serpents. This story is a myth. In actuality, the cave walls are coated in what appears to be greyish-brown slime. As I draw closer, the slime becomes arms, arms with small, slimy fingers. Half-alive and attached to the cave with roots that appear to be made of the same grey-black sea-rock as the cave itself, the arms writhe and strain against the current. The movement of water through their fingers is unnatural, backwards, shoving me toward the cave entrance. My stomach bottoms out completely. I can handle the abyss, the whirlpools, the hot springs, the salty water. But these writhing, slimy arms are too much. I stop, fighting against the pull of the current, my every thought and instinct begging me to forget this foolish idea and return to my father's castle.

But it is too late to go back now. I have made it this far, and, tired as I am, I have little chance of making it without being shredded by a whirlpool or cooked by a hot spring. Besides, to turn back now would be to return permanently to a life in which I know I could never be happy. If I were to give up and go back, I would lose any chance I would ever have of becoming human, of exploring the world of air on my own two legs, of breathing air, of being with Edmund. More than anything else, I want my chance at being with the human who has so incessantly filled all my thoughts for so long. This is my chance; I cannot turn back now.

Twisting my hair together and holding it to my breast to prevent the worm-fingers from grabbing it, I plunge, scared but determined, into Dressela's cave.

The tunnel that I enter is darker than anything I have ever before experienced, so dark that my eyes, designed for seeing in the dimness of water, are stricken totally blind. I grope my way through the cave entrance with one hand before my face, my other still holding my hair to my breast to prevent it from becoming entangled in the fingers that scrabble against my skin. They are slimy and slippery; I shudder at their touch and swim just a little faster in my desire to escape them and the blackness of the tunnel. At last, the long, dark entrance opens up into the dimly-illuminated heart of Dressela's cave.

"Come in, Princess Aria," a voice summons me. I obey. Dressela is immobile in the center of her perfectly spherical room, her back toward me. "You are here on urgent bussiness, no doubt." She turns to me, and I swallow my horrified gasp. Stories call her an ugly, haggled old merwoman with pointed teeth and withered skin. All those stories lie.

Dressela is not a merwoman. She is an enormous sea serpent.

Large grey-brown scales the color of the worm-fingers cover her massive snake body. Her face is partly that of a merwoman's; that is, her features are vaguely merwomanish, except they too are coated in grey-brown scales. Fangs the length of my longest finger protrude from beneath her scaly lips. She has arms and hands bared of scales only on the palms and very ends of her fingers. Her eyes are slanted and yellow, without eyelids, covered instead with a filmy piece of pale skin; the pupils are slitted. The rest of her body is distinctly serpentine.

"I know why you are here, little princess," she announces, her thin, forked tongue flickering. She draws out her S-sounds into a hiss. "I musst warn you, your wishess are very foolish."

I gulp several breaths, trying to calm my nerves and slow the trembling that is beginning to spread from my fingertips into my arms and body, and remind myself that this is indeed what I want. "I am not here to observe your counsel," I reply, my voice sharp from anxiety. "If you know why I am here, you can help me without delay."

Dressela does not listen to me. "You wish to become human. You want to walk on land and breathe air. You want your prince to fall in love with you and marry you. And you want a human ssoul." She slithers toward me, makes one complete circle around me, and grins a grin that chills me to the bone. "On that lasst wish, I cannot help you. I am only a humble witch, not a god. I cannot grant you a ssoul, my pretty princess. But I do know how a mermaid may gain one."

I cock my head, curious. "How?"

Dressela's tongue flickers in and out of her mouth for a moment as she considers my question. "A mermaid may gain a ssoul only if a human were to love her, love her with all his own heart and ssoul, sso much that he would bid his priesst to join their handss in marriage. That iss the only way, little princess."

Well, that is killing two fish with one blow. "Can you do it?" I ask.

"What, make you human? I can, little princess, but are you willing to bear it? Know that, once you become human, you will no longer be able to return to the ssea. Never again will you be able to sswim with your ssisterss in your beautiful casstle, nor ssee all your favorite fish or flowerss. If you become human, you will remain human."

I bite my lip, willing the resolve that lead me here not to fail me now, and nod. "If I had not already decided, I would not be here," I mutter after a few long moments.

Dressela circles me again, that horrible grin still chiseled on her lips. "And being human iss not an eassy tassk. The potion I can make for you will work, but only at great disscomfort to you. Every sstep you take as a human will feel as though you tread upon a sspear-point. You will be in pain at every moment."

"Yes, all right," I agree, growing impatient with the large snake.

"You are willing, little princess?"

"Willing and ready."

"But think you well," Dressela continues. I can feel my resolve slip in her delaying, and I sigh loudly, trying to encourage her to make her point before I swim screaming from the cave. "If your prince cannot or doess not love you with his whole heart and ssoul, and he doess not marry you, you will never gain your own ssoul. And"—her voice drops ominously—"the morning after his marriage to another, you will disssolve into ssea foam. What ssay you to that?"

I swallow hard, frightened by this new uncertainty, but coming here had been the true test of my desires; the final sundry details matter very little to me now, and I will always be capable of explaining my situation to Edmund.

Dressela, as though predicting the direction of my thoughts, interrupts. "But! Princess Aria, thiss potion of yourss will need to be sstrong, and, in order to be sstrong enough, it will require ssome of my blood and all of your tongue."

Like the worm-fingers had after surviving the hot springs and whirlpools, this final small horror is the one that causes me to react. For a single moment, as my hands fly up to cover my mouth, I realize this venture is the most foolish thing I have ever undertaken, and, for the space of two breaths, I want nothing more than to leave this cave and return to my flowerbed. "My tongue!" I shriek through my fingers. "But, if you take my tongue, I will be unable—"

"To sspeak or ssing. That iss how it goess, pretty little princess." How I wish the snake would stop grinning at me!

"And, if you take away my voice, how can I…?"

Dressela laughs, forked tongue flickering. "You will be as graceful and beautiful as you are now, little princess. You will keep your expresssive eyess and lovely form. Certainly, those are all you need to enchain your prince'ss heart."

I bury my face in my hands momentarily, considering. As a human, I would always be in pain, and I will be unable to talk. But I would be human, and that is the important fact. I raise my head from my hands. "All right, Dressela," I mutter, my voice choked with fear. "Do whatever you must, only make me human."

Dressela's tongue zips between her lips twice as she looks at me, perhaps to determine just how serious I am. "Very well, little princess," she agrees. Slithering over to a shelf on the right side of the spherical room, she begins to load her arms full of potion ingredients. Off one shelf comes a small knife; a shudder scurries down my spine at the anticipation of pain. "Many exotic thingss go into thiss kind of potion," Dressela comments, "like thiss pig liver." She holds up a misshapen red lump of meat. "Pigss are creaturess of the world of air; their liverss are not eassy to come by." She drops the pig liver into her cauldron in the center of the room, followed by an assortment of scales and teeth and eyeballs. "The cackleberriess are for flavor," she tells me as she throws in a small bunch of yellow-green berries. "They make the potion more palatable. Now I need you to hold out your tongue." Dressela wields the knife.

I clench my hands into fists and, aware of my discomfort with blood, squeeze my eyes closed. With deliberate slowness, I push my tongue out from between my quivering lips. Dressela, not a serpent who tortures by suspense, is mercifully quick with her knife; she removes my tongue with a dexterity that is surprising from a snake. For a long moment, blinding white pain shoots through my body. I can feel blood on my teeth and lips.

Dressela mumbles something about sharks, and the flow of blood slackens to a stop, numbing the pain to a tolerable level. I open my eyes, wincing when I notice a small vial of my blood clasped in Dressela's hand. "My payment," the snake hisses. "Mermaid blood iss a preciouss commodity."

I try to respond, but the sounds I make cannot form words without a tongue to shape them. My mouth feels empty and cavernous and strange.

Because I notice Dressela heading back to her cauldron—presumably to add my tongue and her blood to the mess inside—I look at the vial in her hand, pretending it is not blood. Instead, I imagine that it is moonlight, part of the shimmery silver beams that often illuminate the world of air. Soon, it will be the only piece of me left in the water. For the sake of my already-uneasy stomach, I do not watch the potion; the howling and hissing that it makes is more than enough to experience.

Eventually, the potion quiets, and Dressela hands me what appears to be a sparklingly clean, but empty, vial. "It iss insside, foolish mermaid. Sswim to shore and drink it before ssunrisse, or it will losse much of itss potency. Leave now."

I obey. The potion is faintly luminescent, too dim to be noticeable inside the cave, but it casts almost enough light to see by in the black tunnel. The slimy worm-fingers shrink away from the glowing vial in my hand. Once clear of the dark entrance, I start toward the surface, forgoing the journey across the hot springs and whirlpools. There is no need to go back toward the castle and, as the night is half-over, every need to hurry upward. I swim as quickly as my tailfin can handle in its torn, sore condition, breaking the surface as the sky begins to lighten from deep blue to soft grey. Streaks of pink over the cliffs on land announce that the sun is on its way. The cliffs surrounding Edmund's castle scrape, deep grey and austere, against the sky; the marble-and-gold castle itself is dim, unlit, in the predawn. I gulp my last breaths of water and haul myself onto the steps, cursing my tail's uselessness out of water. I wriggle, shove, and yank myself up four steps before I decide that I would be in no danger of drowning should I lose consciousness at any point. I settle on the step, remove the stopper from the vial, and, toasting silently to love and all its foolish certainties, press the vial to my lips, throw back my head, and swallow the contents.

And I wait.

I had not bothered to hold any water in my mouth, confident as I was that Dressela's potion would act instantaneously, and drowsiness begins to creep across my mind as I wait. This is not fair, that I should suffocate in air after having drunk a potion paid for with blood that is suppose to make me human. I grit my teeth, feeling cheated.

The feeling of heat begins at the aching edge of my tailfin. At first, it is only warm, strange but not unpleasant. But the amount of heat increases quickly until it feels like my tailfin has been caught in the kitchen's hot springs. I grunt, wishing the heat would leave the torn bit of my tail alone. As though complying with my wish, the heat moves up my body, violent now, torturous, as though a burning spear had been plunged through my head, my chest, my tail. I cry out again, genuinely this time, with the unrealized half-hope that someone will hear me and stop the pain. Through the increasing darkness in my eyes, I can see my beautiful blue scales falling from my tail, leaving in their place nothing but raw, silvery flesh.

My vision fails me completely just as the sun breaks over the top of the cliffs.

--

**Author's Note: "The Little Mermaid" breaks very neatly into three different parts and so, similarly, does _From the Sea_. This is the official end of part one, and it seemed like a good time to take a moment to thank everyone who has been reading and commenting. You guys are amazing, and I appreciate your feedback. I hope every one of you has read the original Andersen fairy tale; if not, stop now and read it (and note that knowing the Disney version _does not count!_).**


	10. Grace

Harsh sunlight streams through my eyelids. I moan, memories of pain still bright and fresh in my mind. The hot, sharp pain is gone now, reduced to a dull ache in my chest, tail, and gills. Everything in me craves breath, and I suck air before I realize where I am. To my amazement, I do not choke; instead, my chest expands, air fills my body, and I am able to breathe again. My fingers probe gently along the side of my neck, searching for my gill slits, but my gills are gone. I open my eyes, blinking in the disorienting sunlight. If my gills are gone, then Dressela's potion must have worked. And, if Dressela's potion worked…

I push myself upright, almost afraid to look for my tail, allowing my eyes to trail slowly down my pale arms; they seem smaller in the sunlight. I stare a long time at the pattern my splayed fingers make against the marble steps, silver-grey on bright white, then, finally, force myself to focus on my lower half. Shock and excitement wash over me in alternating waves.

I have legs. Real human legs, complete with knees and ending in feet with toes. A smile crosses my face, and I wiggle my toes, just for the sensation of it. I am on land—on the steps of Edmund's castle—breathing air, with real human legs!

"Oh, the poor child!" a female voice from behind shrieks. I twist around. Edmund's mother stands two steps up from me, her hand to her face as though she is surprised by my presence. I smile at her. She kneels near me, removing her outermost clothing—a long red robe with a tie across the waist—and offers it to me. "Put it on, child. We will find you something proper to wear in a few minutes, but you cannot walk through the castle naked."

I glance at myself, accustomed to wearing nothing but perhaps flowers in my hair and oblivious to the fact that humans consider it indecent to wear nothing at all. I accept the robe and drape it over my shoulders, tying it closed with a clumsy knot. It feels heavy and too warm, but it is as smooth as water against my skin.

"That's better, isn't it," the queen comments, standing. "Edmund, see to the girl. I will inquire after some food."

Edmund. My lips form his name. Then he is there, standing where his mother had been, two steps above me. He looks at me with the same thoughtful stare that he so often puts on the gardens around the pond. I hold perfectly still, thrilled along every line and curve of my body. After a moment, the seriousness drops from his face, and he smiles. "Come along," he says, offering me his hand.

I have yearned for this moment for so long, and I comply without a second's hesitation. My hand in his, I pull myself to my feet for the first time.

Sharp, fierce, prickling pain shoots up my legs as I stand. In the excitement of the moment, I had forgotten what Dressela had said about walking, about how every step would feel like treading upon a spear-point. My hands clench into fists, and I cannot hold in the cry that pushes against my lips.

Edmund freezes, a look of concern crossing his face. "Are you all right?" he asks.

I squeeze my eyes closed, focusing on breathing evenly. The pain does not lessen, but neither does it worsen. I rock slightly back onto my heels, then forward toward my toes. As the pressure on my feet changes, so does the pain, increasing with an increase of pressure and decreasing similarly, with enough predictability and regularity that I could learn to ignore or adjust to it. I open my eyes and smile at Edmund.

"Are you all right?" he repeats. I nod, lying only slightly. I would rather be here, as a human with sore feet, than in the water, as a mermaid with a wretched heart. Edmund begins to lead me up the gold-and-marble steps toward the castle. His hand is warm. I concentrate on that, on how his skin feels against mine, willing myself to ignore the sharp pain that slices through my feet.

Halfway to the castle, Edmund speaks again. "Forgive my lack of manners. I'm Edmund, and this," he sweeps his free hand in front of him as though to indicate the entire world of air, "is Honnaleigh." He pauses, waiting for me to make my introduction; I can only smile and shake my head. "You…can't speak?" he ventures hesitantly after a moment. I shake my head again. Edmund does not respond, but continues toward the castle in silence, his polite expression not quite masking the discomfort that flashes through his eyes.

Finally, after more steps than seems possible, we reach the castle. From this vantage point, the spires appear to reach up forever and pierce the sky. Edmund leads me through a few narrow doorways and into a busy room full of servants. "Katrina," he calls across the bustle.

One servant, a stout, matronly female with short orange hair and a dour face, steps forward. "Yes?" she replies with a respectful inclination of her head. Her voice is frank and dry, with a no-nonsense quality that makes me think that she is not a human to cross.

"This girl is our guest. See that she is clothed and housed appropriately."

"Certainly," Katrina complies with another nod.

Edmund turns to me. "You must be hungry. I will see how the meal is progressing. Katrina will help you bathe and dress." He smiles and releases my hand, disappearing through the door before I can react.

Katrina grabs my elbow. "Come on, girl, let's get you washed up," she orders. Servants in my father's castle would never order a princess to do anything—but, I remind myself, I am no longer in my father's castle, and I am no longer a princess.

I obey her meekly, following her as she tugs me toward the back of the room, through another door, and into another, empty room. The floors in here are of small, polished tiles, mostly white and flecked occasionally with green or black. In the far left corner, there is a large white basin containing nothing but a grey pipe. The rest of the square room is bare of furnishings.

Katrina walks to the basin and fiddles with the pipe. To my amazement, water begins to gush from the end and into the basin. The servant then returns to me. "Remove the robe," she says. I fumble with the knot, my fingers clumsy, succeeding only in making more of a mess than had already been there. Eventually, with a sigh, Katrina pushes my hands away and manages to untie my knot and, clicking her tongue like an annoyed striped-nose, nudges me toward the basin. "Hop in," she instructs, removing the robe from around my shoulders.

I step over the lip of the basin and lower myself into the water. It is very clear, clearer than any water I have ever seen, and so warm that it steams like a hot spring. At first touch, the hot water burns, but, as I grow accustomed to the temperature, the warmth works through all my soreness and becomes surprisingly pleasant.

Katrina pulls out a sponge and starts scrubbing my arms and back with something foamy and smooth that has a sweet quality I cannot quite explain, a sort of flavor for the nose. "How long have you been on the ocean?" she asks, crinkling her nose. "You smell like sea salt." She works the foamy stuff into my hair. "Ah!" she exclaims suddenly. "Perhaps you are from Fairyland!" I glance at her curiously, and she offers a strand of my long silvery hair as proof of her claim. "That graceful walk and silver hair of yours have to come from somewhere. So. You've come to put a spell on our prince, eh?" And then, the dour-faced old servant does the most unexpected thing: she grins.

Warming to her despite her commanding tone and irritating manners, I smile back as she helps me from the water basin. Merfolk, despite a distant ancestor shared with fairies, are no more innately magical than any average fish; Dressela is the only being in the water with the power to cast spells, and she is a snake.

Katrina wraps me in a thick, rectangular piece of clothing, pats the water off my skin, and tells me to wait here while she finds "something more appropriate" for me to wear. While she is gone, I wander around the little room, trailing my fingertips against the smooth white walls. The air is still warm and damp from the steam off the hot water, and the moisture dampens the tiles and stone. I inhale through my nose repeatedly, intoxicated by the deliciously sweet quality that lingers from the foam. Humans are amazing. I close my eyes and lean against the wall, my palm pressed flat into the stone, just inhaling slowly. The stone has a different flavor, thicker and heavier than the foam. Wet. I never knew that water can have such air-like qualities.

"What are you doing, girl?" Katrina's voice breaks through my reverie, and I open my eyes and push away from the wall_—_wincing slightly as the pain in my feet flares at the movement. Katrina holds out the clothing. "Come on, now, let's get you dressed for dinner."

"Dressing," which I come to understand is the human practice of putting on clothing, is a long, ritualistic process. Each article of clothing—and there are many of them—is highly specific to a certain body part: stockings, pantaloons, and garters for the legs, a camisole for the torso, petticoats around the waist, a dress and robe to cover it all up. Soft, cool slippers go onto my feet; a slim golden necklace hangs around my neck. Katrina brushes out my hair, exclaiming again at its color and length. "I'm no hairdresser," she comments at one point, "so I'll not do anything fancy with it. Besides, he rather likes a woman's hair left down, the cheeky young man. Not that he'd ever say anything, of course, but I've known him all of his eighteen years and _still_ haven't been able to cure him of his impudence."

I smile to myself, noticing the warmth and fondness that leaks into Katrina's dry voice when she mentions Edmund.

"Well, that's as clean as you're ever gunna get, so I'll show you the dining hall." Katrina removes the brush from my hair and turns me around to face her. "My, my," she breathes, a flicker of a smile on her lips. "You must indeed be from Fairyland. Or somewhere magical," she adds when I shake my head in denial of her claim.

"Somewhere magical" is all relative, I decide, following Katrina through the castle. To humans, perhaps the sea, the merfolk's world, would be considered magical. But to me, beings with gills and tails are as ordinary as sand. To me, it is the sky, the sun, the moon and stars and air, that are new and exciting. To me, it is the humans that are magical, the way they move and breathe and look. Even their speech is different: some of their smaller words are spliced into the words surrounding them, turning "I will" into "I'll" and "you are" into "you're." The effect is fascinating, and I wish for a tongue with which to try it for myself.

After several curving halls and one steep staircase, Katrina ushers me into another room. "I can't stay, but you go in, and I'll see you have a room furnished and ready by nightfall," she instructs, pushing me into the room and closing the door behind me.

The dining hall is enormous, larger even than my father's Great Hall. On three sides, floor-to-ceiling windows bring in the streaming sunlight. On the forth, the stones are blanketed by tapestries. One tapestry depicts this castle, perched on its cliff above the sea, while great waves batter against the rock face. Another shows what must be a town; humans crowd the narrow alleys between their buildings, boxes full of materials I cannot identify in their hands. A third has another castle on it, one that appears faintly luminescent, set amongst tall strands of waving kelp…

I gasp suddenly and take two quick steps toward the tapestry, shocked and amazed. The castle on the tapestry is that of my father's. Two fish of dull brown that otherwise vaguely resemble striped-noses peek out from the kelp; a lone mermaid is visible as she hurries back toward the castle. The mermaid is only a human approximation—gill-less, with tailfins that lie horizontally instead of vertically, more like a whale than a fish—but the realization that humans know about merfolk at all is the fact that dazzles me most.

"Do you know about the Sea King where you're from?" Edmund asks quietly, coming from behind me to examine the tapestry.

I probably know more about him than anyone in the world of air could imagine, but I shake my head, curious to hear what Edmund will say.

"It's really just old superstition, from a time when Honnaleigh was cursed. Legends say that the Sea King is a powerful merman who controls the tides and the waves and the storms. He is easily angered and will send ill weather to sink any ship that sails over his waters without paying him the proper homage." I smile; Edmund reads my expression as one of disbelief and continues, "Like I said, it's mostly old superstition. There was a sorcerer who used the sea to wage war on us once"—Edmund's gaze flickers to the tapestry of the castle being barraged by the ocean—"and that's probably where most of the stories come from. But few Honnaleians will cast off from a harbor without cutting their fingers and bleeding for a minute into the water. Truly devout sailors will sometimes even slice open a vein. But they are few and far between," he adds as my expression turns nauseated.

Despite the image of a human bleeding into the sea, my stomach mumbles grouchily about its hunger, loudly enough that Edmund hears it and smiles. "You must be hungry. There's food here if you want it." He half-turns toward the rest of the room and gestures broadly. I move away from the wall of tapestries and examine the rest of the hall. The floors are smooth and brown; in the sunlight, the brown shimmers a deep golden color. In the middle of the huge room, tables covered in food and surrounded by humans make themselves the center of attention. I breathe in the air. The nose-flavors are strong here, spicy and warm and tantalizing, and my stomach grumbles with impatience.

I take a few hesitant steps toward the tables. Until this moment, I have encountered only one human at a time. Now, it appears that I am going to be thrust into a whole crowd of them. Strangers make me nervous, and there is little worse than being caught up in a whole crowd of strangers, regardless of whether or not they are human. I gulp and glance at Edmund, who steps up beside me and offers his hand. "The courtiers don't bite," he assures me, "except for Lady Stephania there in the pink." He nods toward a female in an enormous bright pink dress. "She only nibbles a little, though, so keep an eye on her, and you'll come out unscathed." Although his face is set in seriousness, there is a twinkle of humor in his eyes, and I smile, relieved of much of my nervousness.

We plunge into the midst of the crowd. Conversations die on the courtiers' lips, then pick up at double the speed. Edmund bats away most of the questions about my identity and heritage, but that does not stop the courtiers from asking them. I ignore them as best I can, and, slowly, their questions lose volume and disperse.

Less uncomfortable once the conversations turn back to their original topics, I turn my attention to the food. Everything is steaming into the air, releasing all the most fantastic nose-flavors imaginable. Very little looks even remotely familiar. I recognize lobster and some varieties of small fish, but most of the meat is unknown to me, golden brown, oddly shaped, glistening with fat. Edmund points to a few things as he gathers food onto a flat serving container called a "plate." "The strawberries grow wild right outside the castle," he tells me, nodding toward a bowl of irregular, bright red fruits.

I take two.

Human food is spicy, hot, and heavy, rests oddly in my stomach, and tastes unbelievable. Because I have only a stub for a tongue, the flavors I taste are probably far more limited than the flavors actually contained in the food, and yet, even limited, they are distinct and delicious. Combined with the nose-flavors—the "smells"—human food is the most amazing thing I have ever eaten. Pheasant, bread, corn, apples, chocolate, soup—I want to try everything, and my eagerness makes Edmund chuckle. "You've not eaten in a while," he observes, watching me with his eyebrows raised in equal parts shock and amusement. I shake my head and reach for a third strawberry.

Edmund calls the evening slow. "Sometimes," he explains, "my mother takes it into her head to throw a ball or banquet for no particular reason except for the hope that I might dance with the girl destined to be my wife." He smiles slightly, proving that he is half-joking. "But tonight, it'll be quiet."

Almost as if to refute Edmund's claim, music strikes up in a room down the hall. Quiet nights in the sea mean entertainment is forgone entirely; quiet nights on land must mean something different. I frown, confused, and Edmund amends, "Comparatively quiet, that is. In Honnaleigh, there is always a little bit of dancing after dinner. The dance hall is through the first door on your left if you want to see it." His tone hints that he has no desire to watch the dancing himself, and I slip my hand into his, offering him my company.

His eyes flash down to my hand, a surprised, but not entirely disapproving, frown momentarily drawing his eyebrows together. Then, slowly, he meets my gaze and smiles. "I'll show you the best place in this palace," he whispers, almost conspiratorially, as he and I step out of the dining hall. He leads me back down the corridor up which Katrina had led me, through a pair of doors that are cleverly disguised as windows, and out into the night. I pause to look around. A shard of the crescent moon is just becoming visible over the line of study kelp humans call "trees," its faint silvery glow mingling with the soft gold of the castle lights. Just in front of me is a thick-topped, carved-legged railing that I recognize even from this new vantage point.

I am on the balcony above the pond.

For a moment, my hurting feet threaten to refuse bearing weight, and I am glad that the railing is close enough to grab. I clutch it with my free hand, forcing myself to relax, to breathe, to not be so easily overcome. Two nights ago, I had floated in that pond, tail resting and gills twitching, and had stared up at this very structure, at Edmund as he had leaned against the railing exactly as he is now. Two nights ago, my life had been unhappy and colorless, shadowed by the constant knowledge that my love for this human would go forever unknown and unrequited. Two nights ago, I would have never dared to imagine that I might someday stand above the water, breathing air, with Edmund's hand clasped in my own. The weight of what I had done the night before is staggering, the consequences unfathomable. No one, not even Grandmother or Harmony, knows where I am.

"Are you all right?" Edmund asks, frowning again, this time with confusion.

I nod. The collision of the two worlds—land and sea, air and water—was intense, jarring, but I know I will survive it. Despite the sudden realization of what I had done, it remains fact that today has been the most perfect day I have ever known. Edmund makes it perfect. No amount of consequence could make me think I made the wrong decision.

Edmund watches the water, his eyes roving slowly over its surface. "Sometimes," he mumbles, as if to himself, "sometimes, if you look really closely and wait, you can see things in the water. This pond is open to the ocean, so occasionally a misdirected fish or two will get in. Most of them splash around a bit, but I've seen some really big ones a few times, and they're as silent as can be." He pauses, then wonders, "How smart are fish, anyway?" I shrug one shoulder. Even the most intelligent striped-nose has only as much understanding as an infant merchild. "Well, I'm certain I've seen intelligent—really intelligent—life in that pond." He laughs suddenly, quietly, but continues to stare at the water with genuine seriousness. "Maybe the stories sailors tell about mermaids are not pure superstition. Maybe I have a mermaid friend who lives in that pond."

I shiver. He had meant the statement as a joke, but he touches so close to the truth that I cannot help reacting.

Edmund slips back into his own thoughts, and the night silently awaits the crescent of moon to fully clear the treetops. I stand perfectly still, ignoring the pain in my feet, concentrating on all the human sensations I am experiencing: the gentle wind in my hair, the sweet, clean smells of the air, the warmth of Edmund's hand. Human skin is warmer than any mermaid's.

After a few minutes, Edmund breaks the silence. "Who are you?" he asks, looking up from the pond to pin me with that same serious, thoughtful gaze. "I know you've been asked that several times today, and I know you can't…can't _tell_ me, but you must have a name and a home and a family who's worried about you."

A name. A home. A family. All would tie me unbreakably to who I had been. They would keep me as Princess Aria, the discontented youngest daughter of the merfolk's king. I would like to see Aria, along with her blighted outlook of life, dead and gone. I shake my head in denial of Edmund's claim. Aria disappeared with her tail and gills.

"You don't honestly expect me to believe that your parents never gave you a name, do you? Because I don't. You have to have a name, at least." His voice is almost accusatory.

I smile slightly, not sure how to explain that I was not denying that my parents named me, only that I was denouncing the identity to which that name is tied. The smile must have suggested as much, though, for understanding suddenly brightens Edmund's expression, and he nods a little. "We'll have to call you something," he tells me. I shrug helplessly. Edmund glances down at the pond, considering, then back up at me as he says, "What if I were to suggest some things, and you could let me know what you liked."

I nod, agreeing to the plan, and Edmund runs slowly through some female human names. He gets only four out before I stop him, liking the sound of the last one. "Grace?" he repeats.

I consider it. "Grace" has to it a simple kind of elegance and a distinctly human sound, and I think it is beautiful. I smile broadly, approving.

"Grace it is, then." Edmund faces me and smiles. "Welcome to Honnaleigh, Grace. I hope you like it here." His voice drops as he adds, "Won't your family be worried about you?"

I shrug slightly and shake my head. My sisters and grandmother certainly will be worried about me; my father will be incensed. But I do not care. This is my life, not my sisters' or father's or grandmother's, and I will live it as I wish to live it. I am a human now, and the sea and its creatures have no claim to me.

Edmund raises one eyebrow skeptically but does not press the issue. "You've had a long day, I'd wager. Katrina had a room prepared for you. Come on, I'll show you to it." He leads me through the window-doors, down the hallway, and into a corridor to the left of the dining hall. The new corridor twists, turns, and splits off at least half-a-dozen times while we walk it, and I think to be grateful that my mermaid memory was unaffected by Dressela's potion. "It took me three years to learn this corridor," Edmund comments, "but it's simple once you memorize it." He nods to a few doors, singling out his room, his mother's room, the servant's wing.

Finally, just before I begin to wonder if this narrow hallway wanders on forever, he stops beside a large paneled door decorated with carved flowering vines. "This is your room. If you get lost, just keep walking toward any visible light. You'll always bump into someone who can point you in the right direction."

I nod, acknowledging his advice, and reach for the handle of the door. Edmund inhales and reaches one hand halfway toward me as if to say something, and I turn. Whatever he wanted to say dies in the silence. "Well," he mumbles, more to exhale his breath than to actually communicate, dropping his hand against his leg in a suddenly awkward gesture. "Goodnight." He turns away and hurries back down the twisting corridor.

I stare after his retreating back, my teeth catching and biting my bottom lip. After all the time and trouble it took for me to get here, it is nearly impossible to stand here and watch him leave.

I have just opened the door to my room when Edmund stops and spins toward me. He has only made it so far as the next door down—maybe eight or ten lengths—and he retraces the steps that distance requires before I can understand what he wants. Then, clearly obeying a sudden irrational impulse, Edmund very softly kisses my forehead.

I close my eyes, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid to even think. The pain in my feet dissolves; any cursory regrets or second thought I have vanish. Blood pounds against my ears, and I feel dizzy and lightheaded.

So this is what happiness feels like.

Edmund backs away one step, the corners of his mouth quirked into a slight smile. "You smell like sea salt," he tells me before turning again and striding down the hallway.

I press against the large door, thanking Dressela all the way down to my bones.


	11. Exploration

By the time a mermaid is ten years old, sleep has long been a thing of the past. Most will never sleep again, though, occasionally, a particularly old mermaid may doze once every few days. On the contrary, humans, Grandmother had told me once, normally sleep seven or eight hours per day, and I am now faced with a time when everyone in this castle save me is sleeping. I spend a little of the time in my room. It is large and square, taking ten paces to cross in either direction. The walls are made of faintly-white stone and hung with tapestries of decorative designs; three windows look out into the night from the wall directly across from the door. The dominant piece of furniture is the huge platform twice my length and almost as wide, soft to the touch and supported by four elegantly carved legs, that is placed on the right side of the room, against the wall. A tall, unadorned chest stands across from the platform. I pull open the doors of its front and peer inside. Rhythm used to enjoy discovering what humans kept in their chests when crossing the sea and always talked about the jewelry, clothing, and shoes she would find inside of them.

I run my hand over the short row of dresses suspended by a bar near the top of the chest; the materials slip across my palm, so soft and smooth I almost cannot feel them. Below the dresses, lined up in a neat row on the bottom of the chest, are several pairs of slippers like the ones I had worn to dinner. I spend a moment admiring the array of colors available before turning around to shut the chest door. Movement in my periphery stops me.

The inside of the door is lined by a large piece of reflective glass: a mirror. It is tall, almost a head taller than I am—perhaps about Edmund's height—rectangular, and bordered by a thin black frame. Though it looks nothing like the silver-encased hand mirror my sisters found so many years ago, I know that it fulfills the same purpose, and I turn away and close the door before I can clearly see the image it wishes to show me.

Once away from the chest, I open the door and slip out into the rest of the castle, intending to explore it. My feet hurt dreadfully, however, and I do not make it far before having to stop and sit, sighing as all my weight is removed from my legs and the pain ceases altogether. But it does not last long; curiosity has bested me, and I am soon back up and wandering around. My direction is aimless, meandering. I have nowhere to go, so I stroll along as the whim takes me, investigating any nooks or hallways that I come across, trailing my fingers along the walls, touching tapestries and statues, smelling the air, pausing occasionally to pick one foot, then the other, off the ground for a moment to ease some of the pain.

I watch the sunrise from the dining hall, where the view from the three sides of windows is unparalleled. The sight is extraordinary: pink light arching over the cliffs, then the sun—blindingly bright and startlingly yellow—ripping into the pink-grey sky to shimmer off the low swells of the sea.

Katrina finds me still in awe several minutes later. "What are you doing here?" she demands. "It's far too early for you to be awake. Come on, you can't stand there all day like that!" She grabs my elbow and hauls me back to my room, grousing the whole way about how I have made her late for her chores.

"You wore this dress to dinner last night," she comments as she unbuttons and undresses me. "You never changed for bed? And you didn't sleep, either. And yet you look as fresh as if you had." Katrina holds me at arm's length and regards me with suspicion. "You _are_ some kind of magic creature, aren't you?"

I only smile. "Magic" is a relative term.

Katrina fusses over the decision of which dress to put me into until I, prodded by impatience, select one for myself. "Blue?" she wonders, looking at the dress in my hands. "I don't know if blue is a good color on you. Let's see." She grabs the dress, holds it against my shoulders, and relents.

Finally dressed to Katrina's satisfaction, I make my way back toward the dining hall for breakfast. Edmund meets me in the corridor; the bright smile that crosses his face encourages me to forgive Katrina for enforcing all the prolonged, tedious details of the human dressing ritual. "Good morning, Grace," he greets me, holding out his elbow, laughing when I glance curiously at his odd position. "My apologies, m'lady. I assumed gentlemen in your country escorted their ladies the same way we do here." He takes my hand, threads it through his arm, and places my fingers in the crook of his elbow. "That's what you do if a Honnaleian ever offers you his arm."

I have never been escorted anywhere, except for perhaps away from my flowerbed by Harmony, and I am flattered by his attention. Mermen courtiers do not accompany the merwomen unless they are dance partners or married couples.

"Did you sleep well?" Edmund asks politely. I smile. My night was pleasant, and that is as close to sleeping well as I will ever experience. "You look lovely. You'll probably cause all sorts of commotion at breakfast."

He is correct. Just like at dinner last night, all conversation dies when Edmund and I step into the dining hall, and then picks up at double the speed a moment later. All eyes are on me. Human or not, the stares of strangers have always made me nervous, but I attempt a few unsuccessful smiles, shuddering uncomfortably when a couple of courtiers refuse to stop staring. Lady Stephania, dressed in a pink gown similar to the one she had worn the evening before, cocks her head toward me and pushes out her bottom lip; I see her eyes flash in what looks like a sudden stab of jealousy. I shiver again and turn to the food, trying to ignore the eyes I can still feel on my back.

The food is again marvelous, lighter and sweeter than dinner had been. I try everything and love it all, but find myself continually drawn toward the strawberries. Their color reminds me of my flowers; they are the same fierce shade of red. As I contemplate the strawberry in my hand, regret begins to trickle through me. For nearly ten years, I have cared for nothing more than my flowers, but these last weeks have seen my flowerbed entirely neglected. I hope they are not angry with me, then I laugh silently at myself for imposing emotions onto flowers and eat the strawberry in three bites.

After breakfast, Edmund asks me what I wish to do, and I shrug, not knowing what humans do to occupy the time between sunrise and sunset. Edmund chuckles. "We'll have to figure out some way to communicate. I know a little signing, but nowhere near enough." I give him a confused look and shrug a second time, causing him to chuckle again. "And somehow, I have the feeling you don't know any at all."

We spend much of the day touring the castle. I had wandered most of the halls the night before, but not with Edmund. He had grown up in this sunshiny, colorful palace and knows every room's function and location. Our meandering eventually leads us out of the palace doors and into the stables. "Have you ever ridden a horse before?" Edmund asks, looking down the long isle flanked by doors that are laced with iron bars. I shake my head. The only reason I recognize the word "horse" is because he had mentioned it earlier in the day. "No? Well, tomorrow, I will teach you. On horseback is the only decent way to travel over land." He smiles at me. "C'mon, I'll introduce you." I follow him down the isle until he stops in front of one of the doors. The giant head of some fearsome creature swings over the door.

I gasp and fall back a step, half-hiding myself behind Edmund. The horse flicks its flexible ears toward me, pinning me with a suspicious glare. Edmund takes one look at my expression, tilts his head back, and laughs with the most merriment I have ever seen him express. "It's alright, Grace, I promise," he assures me, his words broken up by chuckles. "He won't hurt you." He glances at the horse and jostles its impossibly massive nose with affection. "Relax, you stupid animal. She just wants to say hello." Edmund's laughter fades, but the oversized smile it created does not. "Hold your hand out flat," he instructs, demonstrating.

I turn my hand and, still scared but trusting Edmund's promise of safety, offer the horse my palm. The horse looks at it for a moment, deliberating, then slowly lowers its fist-sized nostrils onto my hand. Its short hair is very soft; the longer whiskers are stiff and tickle my fingers. The horse snuffs my hand, its breath hot and surprisingly fragrant, then its great pink tongue comes out of its mouth, and it licks my fingers. A huge smile breaks across my face.

"He likes you," Edmund tells me. "His name is Button."

Button? my lips repeat. I glance down at my dress, at the six tiny buttons down its front. Katrina had given me the impression that buttons were small things, inconspicuous clothing fasteners. If I were to pick a name for this hulking creature, "button" would be the last word on my mind.

"My father named him. He loved to give animals ironic names. But it fits surprisingly well." Edmund rubs Button's ears. "He's one of the bigger horses in the stables, but he wouldn't hurt a fly if it came up and bit him."

Button continues to lick my fingers and palm until the skin on my hand begins to ache from the pressure of his rough tongue. "I bet you taste like salt," Edmund comments idly when I finally drop my hand from the horse's tongue and wipe the sliminess on my dress. Katrina will have a fit.

We end the day in a room called a "library," a space longer, higher, and wider than any other room in the castle. The walls from floor to ceiling are packed with things Edmund calls "books." Twisting staircases every few lengths lead up to platforms that allow a person reach of the higher shelves. There is a hole in the far left wall called a "fireplace," which, I have learned, is used to heat a room in cold temperatures, though now it lies dormant. Around the fireplace is a cozy grouping of several soft chairs and a single short couch.

"Most of the knowledge in Honnaleigh, and lots from Madirae, and even a little from Fairyland, is contained in this room," he says, sweeping his hand around to indicate the towering shelves and winding stairs. "Anything you'd ever want to read is in here; the trick is finding it." He takes my hand and tugs me toward one corner of the room. "I thought I saw some signing books once…" A hasty scan of the books in front of him provides him with the one he wants, and he removes it from the shelf. "Here's one, anyway."

We sit on the floor, and Edmund ruffles through the book's pages, expressing his thankfulness that it is loaded with pictures. The last part of the day soars by, full of the delightful business of trying to learn the language contained in the book's pages, a language which I am thrilled to learn is spoken with the hands. One cannot truly appreciate the ability to communicate until that ability is utterly removed; the possibilities that accompany signing are tremendous: the means of communication, a way to speak to the humans—to Edmund. The learning is wonderfully enjoyable, and, after a time, we are no longer looking at the book and are instead signing ridiculous words like "turtle" and "bedsheet" at each other and laughing until the whole room echoes.

"You have an amazing memory," Edmund marvels. I smile, pleased. "I'll study. We'll have proper conversations before the end of next week."

He walks me to my room again tonight, claiming he does not want me to get lost in the twisting corridor. "I haven't had so much fun in a long time," he whispers, the faint trace of a smile still just visible in the dark corridor. I nod in agreement. Edmund reaches out and smoothes a tendril of hair away from my face. His warm fingers send a series of tiny shivers down my spine. Then, as he had last night, he kisses my forehead, very gently, as though afraid that I might suddenly vanish. I sigh and close my eyes, not moving lest everything—Edmund, the castle, the happiness coursing through me—disappear.

"Goodnight, Grace," Edmund mutters into my hair before pulling away and turning toward his own room. I smile at his back.

"Cheeky young man. When I was your age, girl, no one would tolerate such displays." Katrina's dry voice makes me jump and whirl around. The old servant is standing at my door, her arms crossed, a disapproving frown on her face. "You, inside, now." She points imperiously at my door, and I obey her mildly. No amount of Katrina's tsking could possibly dampen my blissful mood. "Tonight, you are to sleep like a normal person," she commands, beginning to undress me. She yanks the blue dress off, removes the petticoats, and strips me down to my underthings, then tosses a white nightgown at me and orders me to put it on. "There," she approves once I have again obeyed her, "that's got to be more comfortable for you. Hop in bed."

I sit on the soft platform in the room and lean back against the pillows. Sleep is impossible, but I sense that Katrina will not leave until she thinks me well on my way toward it. "I do not want to come in here tomorrow morning and find you gone," she tells me as she bustles around the room picking up the dress and petticoats she had just dumped on the floor. "You made me late for my chores this morning with that little run-away stunt of yours. If you're out in the dining hall tomorrow, don't think I'm going to help you dress. Goodnight." With her arms full of worn clothing, Katrina exits the room, still muttering inaudibly to herself.

I pass the night in a manner similar to last night. For the first part of it, I have to dodge Katrina as she enters and leaves different courtiers' rooms, often with piles of clothing in her arms. Eventually, however, even she vacates the castle halls in favor of her own bed in the servant's wing, and I gain free passage around the castle.

My wanderings do not end in the dining hall—as Katrina had ordered—but in the library, where she finds me after what she calls "an extensive search." She leads me back to my room and tells me that I can dress myself because I have again made her late for her chores. Intending to obey her, I enter my room and start to pick the day's clothing, but Katrina soon follows, batting away my hands and dressing me anyway. "You _are_ strange," she announces, loudly enough to hear through the entire castle. "Most young ladies would've told me to shut up and dress them. You, though, you seemed perfectly willing to actually dress yourself!"

As he said he would, Edmund teaches me to ride a horse straight after breakfast. The stable master suggests Jenny, a sweet mare covered in large splotches of brown and white hair, as a good horse on which to learn. Riding a horse is not unlike riding a fish, and, because I had excelled in the latter activity while I had engaged in it, I find the former barely even difficult. "You've really never been on a horse before?" Edmund asks as he helps me from the saddle at the end of the lesson. I shake my head. "Well. You're an absolute natural!" I smile, delighted by his compliment.

--

The following days pass in a gentle, contented rhythm. My mermaid memory allows my signing to improve at a rate that Edmund calls uncanny; his, though not as quick, continues to progress in a respectable amount of time. Our first genuine conversation occurs before the end of my first week as a human.

"We'll start simple," Edmund tells me. A frown of concentration flickers across his face as he asks, "What's your favorite color?"

I consider a moment. Human colors are much brighter than the colors of the sea, but I am still drawn again and again toward the reds in the world of air. _Bright red,_ I sign in reply.

"Red? Bright red?" Edmund repeats, a bit hesitantly; I nod in confirmation. "And your favorite food?"

_Strawberries. Especially the ones dipped in chocolate._

Edmund grins. "Chocolate-covered strawberries. I might've guessed." His expression turns eager. "Where are you from?"

This question makes me pause. I could tell him. I could make my hands move in the patterns that would form the words "mermaid" and "from the sea," and I know Edmund would understand them. But how could he believe me? From what I have seen and heard, humans think that merfolk are nothing more than empty lore, stories with which to entertain each other like merchildren telling tales of the sea witch.

Finally, certain that Edmund's reaction to the truth could only be disbelief, I lie. _I am from the Unclaimed Lands to the northeast,_ I sign, recalling from a map I had seen two days ago the vast, forested area that covers the distance between Honnaleigh and Fairyland.

"What's your name?"

I smile. Edmund has been so bothered this past week by not knowing the name my parents gave me, by referring to me with a name that I have had for only six days. But this is who I am now, and I would not have it any other way. _Grace,_ I reply, relishing the way my name feels on my fingertips.


	12. The Sea

My skills on horseback continue to improve, and soon I am able to control Jenny independently of Edmund's help. In celebration of my horseback autonomy, Edmund saddles Button and takes me out of the riding paddock and away from the castle. The road we ride winds down the gently-sloping hill behind the castle, through a large copse of trees, and eventually into the town called Tahron.

Humans, dogs, and horses, their numbers too high to count, clog the cobblestone streets. Little children chase each other through the bustle, causing their mothers to shout after them, calling them away from the crowds. Vendors selling fruits and vegetables cry out their wares and prices; buyers haggle with them, trying to work down the prices by telling them that the apples at the next stand look in better condition. Most interesting of all, however, is the human witch, a withered old crone who works a stand full of queer herbs and unusually-shaped tree roots. In a soft, crackling voice, she announces that, for only a single copper, she will animate any picture or tapestry. "You there!" she calls to me. "Wouldn't you like to see your favorite picture move like they do in Fairyland?"

It would be incredible, but I have neither a copper nor a picture, so Edmund and I ride on. Jenny seems to enjoy the insanity of the town: her ears prick forward, and she moves with an excitement that she has never before had in her step.

Once, a human with skin the color of mud hurries down the road. I point him out to Edmund, who smiles and replies to my obvious but unasked questions. "That's Lucas. He comes from a country so distant that we don't even have it on our maps."

We end the day on a strip of sand along the water. The cove is sheltered on the right by a rocky cliff that descends and curves around the sand until it is but a short jump down off the far left. The castle, Edmund tells me, is only just around the other side of this cliff, no more than a ten-minute walk from the tiny beach that is his favorite swimming spot when the tide is out. Button and Jenny, secured to a large piece of driftwood, graze contentedly on the top of the cliff.

Edmund and I sit on the wet sand at the edge of the water, shoes off, allowing the sea to half-drench our clothing. The sun is blisteringly hot against my face and arms, almost painfully bright, but the water is cool and comforting. It tugs at my soaking skirt, swirls around my legs, rearranges the sand under my feet, murmuring with a rhythm that is almost a voice when it touches land. I drop one hand, fingers splayed, onto the wet sand next to me, and the cool, salty water wraps around my wrist, its voice suddenly and startlingly comprehensible.

_Aria, _it whispers in a voice that is as deep and dark as the sea itself, that throbs in my head with the constancy of the tide. _Aria, the little mermaid who forsook her home, her world. Return. Return__._

I jerk my hand from the water, more frightened by the words than I am by the unexpected voice.

_Aria,_ the voice continues to whisper. _Aria, the mermaid. Return. Return._

The sound of my old name, the one I thought I had renounced forever my first night on land, tangles my thoughts, twisting them around each other until I forget entirely where I am—_how_ I am, tailless and gill-less—until the only thought left in my head is to obey, to return, to dive headfirst into the water.

Another voice, using another name, pulls my mind in the opposite direction. "Grace?"

Edmund. I jump as his voice cuts through the deep, compelling rhythm throbbing through my head, then turn to look at him, aware that my breathing has become a little shaky and much too fast.

He is staring at me, his eyebrows drawn together in a confused frown. "Are you all right?" he asks. I smile as brightly as I can manage and nod with as much sincerity as I can feign. Edmund's frown does not lighten. "Maybe it's time we go home." He shifts his weight forward, preparing to stand.

The thought of leaving, of being shut up in the castle for even a moment right now, fills me with a feeling that is almost panic. I bite my lip and shake my head. _This is your favorite swimming spot when the tide is out, _I protest. _The tide is out now._

The comment is simply the first thing that comes to mind in my desire to convince him to stay. I never meant to suggest that either of us actually take to the water; indeed, with that sea-deep voice demanding that I return to a world in which I could never survive, swimming is the last thought in my head. But Edmund grins at my accidental suggestion. "So…do you want to go for a swim?" he wonders, his tone suddenly shifting from concerned to excited.

I fight against the shudder that flashes down my spine, realizing only as he asks the question that my comment could be construed as a request. Tailless as I am, I would never be able to swim; gill-less, I would not be able to breathe. _I cannot swim,_ I admit slowly. The waves mumble their disappointment.

Edmund, too, appears disappointed: the grin slips off his face as quickly as it came, and he looks out again toward the three jagged black rocks that mark the far edge of the tiny bay with a sigh that would have been entirely inaudible were it not for my sharp ears. I shove one hand into the ground, wiggling my fingertips until they are buried beneath several shifting layers of sand. I know that I am not responsible for the disappointment swirling around me—it is no fault of my own that I cannot swim with legs—but still the weight of the feeling presses against my skin, and it is that weight that urges me after a moment to change my mind. _I cannot swim,_ I repeat, lifting my right hand from the sand to sign properly and drawing Edmund's attention with the movement. _But that would not be a problem as long as I could stand._

Edmund's grin returns almost instantly, and it is impossible for me to keep myself from smiling back. "You'll be able to touch bottom nearly out to the rocks," he tells me as he stands and steps into the water. A length or two away from the shore, he takes a deep breath and dives headfirst beneath the surface, as comfortable in the water as any merman. He swims almost the entire length of the bay before coming up again, dripping and smiling.

I follow more timidly, frightened by the entire situation but determined not to show it. As long as I can keep my feet on the sandy bottom, I am in no danger of drowning, I promise myself. The water feels wonderful, cool on my sun-heated skin, and it curls around me like an old friend welcoming me home. But it seems to know that I am not here to stay, and it protests my intention of leaving with a voice louder than it has been before, louder than any of my own thoughts.

_Aria. Aria, the little mermaid._ Again, the sound of my old name tangles my thoughts, reminds me of how it felt to swim fast through the cold deep waters, to roll around in storm currents, to tend to my flowers and hear Allegro and Andante arguing over the shared side of their plots. _Return to your family. Return to your world._

I do not realize that I have walked further than I can reach and have sunk beneath the water until my head breaks the surface. I gasp, choking on the salt water that burns through my throat and nose. My feet grope for the sandy bottom that is not there, and, with a single uncoordinated stroke that pulls me more downward than upward, my head dips below the surface again. I thrash at the water, struggling to reach air.

_Relax. Stop fighting. Return,_ the water murmurs against my ears. My struggling quiets. _Aria. Return._

Then arms circle my waist, and my head clears the water. I cough, every place air is supposed to go burning from inhaled water. My entire body, from finger to toe, is trembling. One moment of inattention, a single second of lapsed awareness—that is all it takes to drown. I have never realized it could be that easy, that quick.

Eventually, I am dragged back onto the land, back to safety. Edmund hunches anxiously over me, shadowing me from the hard sunlight, one hand still resting across my stomach and the other stroking back my hair. Violent coughs rattle me to the bone; I roll to my side, coughing up seawater until my chest hurts and I can barely breathe. Once purged of water, I can only lie still, exhausted and stunned. The sea is a monster.

"Grace?" I hear Edmund say, his voice tight and quiet. "Are you all right?"

I force my head up off my arms and turn to look at him. He looks back, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, his forehead knotted with worry. I nod vaguely and put my head back on my arms. Edmund exhales. "Merciful heaven," he whispers.

I do not ride Jenny back to the palace. Barely able to stand and stumble back to the horses, I am in no condition to ride even that short distance. Instead, Edmund ties Jenny's reins to Button's saddle and helps me onto his sturdy horse's back. He holds me securely around the waist with one arm, and I, relieved to feel safe, relax and rest my head against his chest.

Though only just sunset when we return, Edmund grants my request and takes me directly to my room—leaving the horses with the surprised but compliant stable master. But, before I can enter my room, he grabs my arms and pulls me into a tight embrace. "Dammit, Grace, don't you _ever_ scare me like that again!" he spits into my hair.

I wince, stung by the anger in his tone, and pull away enough to reclaim the use of my hands, but not far enough to leave his grasp entirely. _I am sorry,_ I apologize. _I did not realize how far out I had gone._

Edmund shakes his head, not denying me forgiveness, but rather in the same manner that Katrina clucks her tongue, like he is trying to but cannot understand me. His eyes are glittery with anger and concern and something else that I do not recognize but that makes me regret my recklessness.

Finally, after a long moment of staring at me, he sucks in a long, slow, faintly trembling breath, and draws me back into his arms. I sigh and close my eyes, pain and weariness and fear forgotten. My aching feet, my burning throat, the creeping realization that I almost died today—what does it matter? _This_ is happiness.

Nothing else is said. Edmund kisses my forehead, allowing his lips to linger against my skin a moment longer than usual, then, with one hard, silent look, turns and strides down the corridor.

I enter my room, barely making it to the bed before crumpling with exhaustion. Sleep is impossible, but I curl into a tiny ball and close my eyes as though I were asleep anyway. Each breath I take rattles painfully in my raw, scraped throat. It is unfair that something as vital as breathing could ever hurt so much.

I bury my face into the pillow, wishing there were some way to purge from my mind the memory of the sea whispering its deadly commands.


	13. Tears

No one ever knows about my near-drowning, although I suspect Katrina hears something, a piece of gossip or a speculative conversation. Usually a surly human, Katrina is just shy of enraged when she storms into my room the next morning. "Every morning for weeks, I have to hunt you down like an animal, and now, here you are, in your bed like a normal person, in—" She rips back the blankets and notices the ruined dress. "What happened?" she demands, and then interrupts me before I have a chance to answer. "No, don't tell me, I don't want to know. Get up! You're taking a bath!"

Her merciless cleaning is accompanied by an unusually high number of angry sounds and muttered words; she scrubs my hair and skin, hard, until even the clean, warm, shallow bath water begins to feel and smell like salt. She dresses me just as mercilessly, pulling all the laces too tight, jerking all the buttons too hard, yanking a hairbrush through my tangled hair until I gasp in pain. Once finished, however, Katrina turns me around very gently and looks at me. Her hard face softens, and she frowns, but without her typical ferocity. "Go to breakfast. You must be hungry," she orders, her voice gruff.

I obey her as usual, baffled by her behavior. I know from Andante, whose temper is roused by just about any strong emotion, that concern can often take on a semblance of anger, but I never knew that the opposite is also true, that anger can take the form of concern.

Edmund is waiting for me, not atypically, in the twisting corridor to the dining hall. "How are you this morning?" he asks, trying to sound as though there is no reason except polite interest that prompted him to ask. But the intensity of his gaze and the quietness of his voice belie his attempt at nonchalance.

I smile slightly and reply, _I_ _am all right. Hungry and thirsty, but fine otherwise._

"Well. That's easy enough to fix," he says, still trying—and still failing—to sound casual.

The courtiers in the dining hall do not treat me unusually this morning: they continue to either slither uncomfortably away from me, or they attempt to reach out and touch me. They still talk about me, wonder about what I want by staying in Honnaleigh. The normalcy of their behavior feels odd this morning; to most of this world, nothing at all has changed. I am the only one who is different because of the previous day's near-drowning.

Most mornings, I enjoy watching the sunlight dance on the waves. Today, I shudder away from the windows and turn my back on the dining hall's magnificent view of the sea.

--

One morning in late summer dawns hot and sticky, with a blanket of clouds too thin to provide shelter from the blazing sun but too thick to be burned away by sunlight. "It's going to be a miserable day," Katrina tells me as we both struggle with the dress that sticks to my damp skin. I am certain I had dried off completely after my bath, but my efforts were in vain, for it is the air itself that is wet, and no amount of toweling off could keep anyone dry in this weather. The old servant's prediction about the day will certainly come true, especially if the conditions do not change.

The weather influences the humans' moods. Talk in the dining hall is muffled and lethargic. Female courtiers fan themselves vigorously with their white feather fans; the males pick at their sleeves and shirts, trying to cool and dry the skin beneath their clothing. They all grouse quietly, complaining to and about each other throughout breakfast. The servants hold their heads down and do not smile. Everyone's face is glistening with sweat, and no one is much interested in the food. Even I, who usually attack the human's food with enough enthusiasm to atone for any lack of appetite I experienced in my previous life, only nibble on a slice of bread and a few strawberries. Damp air and sticky heat drive away all desires.

The queen sits in a chair in the corner of the room, staring blankly out the windows, ignoring everyone and everything. She is normally such an attentive, involved female, talking to everyone and attending to everything, that I begin to suspect that there is more than just the miserable weather accounting for her behavior. Before the servants clear away breakfast entirely, I grab a glass of water and a handful of grapes—a fruit she has never turned down before—step over to where she is sitting, and offer her the food.

The queen glances up at me, her expression registering surprise. "Oh, thank you," she mumbles as she takes the water and grapes from my hands. She then immediately beckons a servant to take both away, claiming that she is neither hungry nor thirsty. Though stung by the action, I try to smile at her. But, before I can turn around and walk away, the queen grabs my right hand in both of hers. Her skin is cold, even colder than mine, and damp, with a slimy quality that I have always attributed to overcooked kelp. "Grace," she says, chafing my hand. Her face is pale and shining with the same slimy sweat that covers her hand. Her eyes are glistening strangely; grief twists her mouth, usually happy and smiling, into a pained frown. My heart lurches. Something really is wrong. The queen stands. "Grace," she says again. I cannot respond with my hand clasped so tightly in hers, but I watch her attentively, ready to hear what she has to say. But she does not say anything. Instead, she releases my hand and puts her arms around my back.

I stiffen, unprepared for this kind of gesture. Edmund's mother has occasionally shown a bit of affection for me, a fond smile or a touch on the shoulder, but she is usually distant, distracted by official matters or engaged in important conversations. I had never thought that we might share any level of real intimacy. Yet, despite having thought it impossible, I never had shied away from the idea.

It slowly becomes evident that the queen is not holding me for my comfort, but rather for hers, and I try to relax. My hands eventually move to return her embrace, and we stand a moment in that fashion. Then she pulls back and smiles, a little shakily, at me. "Thank you, Grace," she whispers.

_You are welcome,_ I respond, though I am unsure why she is thanking me at all.

The queen tucks some stray hair behind my ear. "You are so good for him," she tells me before hurrying from the dining hall and leaving me, bemused but pleased, to marvel over what had just happened. I have no real memories of my mother, only the memory of the pain that accompanied her death. _Aria_ had only an unattached father and a busy grandmother. Perhaps _Grace_ might someday have something closer, something more—a friend, a _mother_.

Edmund is affected by the sultry weather more than anyone. Sullen and silent, he spends much of the morning in the library, glowering down at the pages of the open book in front of him. Periodically, he will turn the page or shift in his seat a little, but, otherwise, he never moves, only continues to glare down at the words in the book. As the morning progresses, he seems to grow more and more agitated and turns the pages of the book more and more quickly.

I, conscious of his mood, sit in a chair in the furthest corner. I cannot read well, but I like looking at pictures, so I leaf slowly through a geography book. Ostensibly, I am enjoying artists' depictions of Fairyland and Madirae. However, more and more of my attention turns to Edmund as the sticky, hot morning progresses toward a sticky, hot afternoon. Something more than just the heat is bothering the Honnaleians today, especially the prince and queen; Edmund's unhappiness radiates across the strained silence, thicker and more oppressive than the air.

Just before midday, Edmund turns on me. "What do you want?" he demands suddenly, snapping his book shut with a thud that makes me jump. I look at him, confused, and shake my head. I would like to know why the whole palace reeks of grief, but all of my sharpest mermaid instincts warn me not to ask. "Then stop looking at me like I've grown scales and a tailfin!" He exhales loudly through his nose and considers me a moment. Then, in a dry, flat voice: "Leave."

What? My lips form the word before my hands have a chance to. No one—least of all Edmund—has ever sent me away before.

"Leave. The room, the castle. I don't care. Just go away."

I stare at him in shock; he stares back blankly, the minute frown pulling his eyebrows together the only expression on his face. I close the geography book and stand, wincing as the weight on my feet shoots pain up my legs, able to feel his expressionless gaze on me until I exit the library. Once out, I press my forehead to the stones of the hall, breathing slowly against the wall. There is something very wrong inside these stones today, something horrible that sours even Edmund's temper, and I want away from it, away from the stickiness and heat that presses against my temples like a vice, away from the unhappiness that wraps like marble fingers around my chest.

I run to the stables. My foot, already burning from the run, bangs against the metal prong of a stray pitchfork resting against a stall, and I cry out, loudly enough to cause every horse along the isle to panic. A lone stable boy with straw in his hair peers out from an empty stall. "Are you all right?" he asks groggily, rubbing his eyes.

I fling the pitchfork toward him and try to shout that he should not leave it out where it could hurt someone, but the noises I make are nonsensical even to my own ears. I spin around and march down the isle to Jenny's stall, wanting the sweet splotchy-coated mare to reassure me that I am not the worthless little fish that Edmund's dismissal had made me feel.

But even the horses are sour today. Button scowls at me, and Jenny ignores me. I hold out my hand, bang on her stall door, attempt every method I know to grab her attention, but she turns her hind end toward me and continues to doze in one corner. Failing with more passive efforts, I eventually enter her stall and twist her head toward me; she glares, flattens her ears, and yanks away from me. I stomp out of her stall, unreasonably furious at her, and slam shut the swinging stall door so viciously that the iron bars tremble. Every horse down the isle glowers at me for making so much noise and waking them from their naps. I fold my arms against the fury in my chest and sink onto the nearest hay bale. Even the horses hate me today.

"What's troubling you, Miss Grace?" the stable master asks, coming up to me from three stalls down. He is a short, balding old human with a wispy white beard and cheerful grey eyes, a quick, loose stride, and disproportionally-long limbs. He sets down his pitchfork—the one I had thrown, I notice with consternation—and stands next to the hay bale, his fingers interlocked. He understands very little of my signing, so I answer him briefly, attributing my bad mood to the weather and omitting how confused I am about what is happening inside the castle, how much it hurt to have Edmund send me away as he did.

"Aye," the stable master agrees. "The most wretched day in ten years, today is. Everyone's cranky, even ol' Jen here." At the sound of her name, Jenny swings her head over the half-opened stall door. The stable master steps over to her and strokes her nose absentmindedly. I bite my lip and look away, my thoughts regarding the sweet old mare turning bitter as she decides to wake up only now, when the stable master talks to her. "In fact," he continues quietly to himself, "I do think it's been _exactly_ ten years since we've seen such weather. Hmm. No question that everyone's cranky, eh, Jenny?" He shakes the mare's nose affectionately.

I look at him, curious. The stable master is trusted by everyone, from the lowliest scullery maid to the mightiest courtier, so he often knows about everything that happens in the castle, including, it seems, what is wrong inside it now. But the stable master, lost in his own thoughts, has forgotten me. He picks up the pitchfork and walks away without another word.

I stand and move toward Jenny with my palm outstretched; she flicks her ears toward me, bows her head, and snuffs heavily at my hand. Mutual apology and forgiveness trickle through the touch. I smile and rub her ears, my anger draining away. Something painful happened in the castle ten years ago today, in weather very similar to this, and I will ask Edmund what it was later. For now, however, I can leave him alone, allow him to brood over this anniversary without having to explain it.

I spend much of the afternoon wandering the deserted castle grounds, seeing no one save one grouchy, red-faced servant hauling well-water into the kitchen. At length, I find myself drawn down the marble steps toward the sea. The surface is completely flat, entirely calm, and my burning feet ache for the feeling of cold water easing their pain.

I stand a few steps up from the edge, my hand clinging to the gold rail, for a long time. The sea is dangerous, I now know, more for its quiet, hypnotic voice than for any waves or storms. Even standing safely above it as I am, I can almost hear the echo of its words. It wants me, and it wants me dead for my betrayal.

But the pain in my feet, aggravated by standing still for so long, eventually cuts through all my other thoughts, and, wishing to avoid being indoors for the present, I have few other options for sitting and cooling my feet. I lower myself slowly onto the second step, my fingers releasing but not moving away from the railing, and wrap my arms around the upright beam attached to the step. Then, once secured to something solidly on land, I slide my feet out of my slippers and dip them into the cool water. The pain subsides almost instantly.

Though I am prepared for something to happen, it still surprises me when the voice begins to speak. It is quiet today, quieter than it had been before, as wearied by the oppressive weather as the humans are. But even so, it is no less powerful. _Aria,_ it sighs. _Aria, the mermaid._

I tighten my grip on the railing, painfully aware that I am alone this time, that there is no one here who could help me if I were to slide into the sea. Because the voice seems to be only in my mind, I respond to it with only my thoughts._If you are looking for Aria, you are looking in the wrong place,_ I reply, with as much conviction as I have in me.

_You are still Aria, the mermaid. You always will be. Legs cannot change that. You are a mermaid. Now return._

The temptation to obey is strong, almost stronger than my fear of what will happen if I do obey. I squeeze my eyes shut and press my forehead into the beam to which I am clinging, my breath, too fast and shallow, bouncing against the marble and striking me in the face. _No. You are wrong._ The disagreement is weak, but it comes from the very center of my being and so has enough force to at least quiet the other sounds in my head. _Aria is dead; she died on these very steps weeks ago. You are speaking to the wrong person._ My thoughts grow louder, stronger, as they progress, until they are almost a shout. _I am Grace now, and you have no claim over me._

In the silence that follows, the sea remains still, not speaking. I smile and relax my grip on the railing. I have won. _Grace_ has won. I kick at the water, enjoying the patterns made on the surface by the quiet droplets.

Black clouds cover the sun mid-afternoon and empty their rain soon after. The storm is gentle, weary; the rain fall softly, soaking though my hair and clothing. The ocean, stirred by a slight breeze, moans and sighs like a tired whale. The thought of going inside flickers through my mind, but the dampness of the rain feels so much more natural than the dampness of the air, and I ignore the thought. Katrina will huff and holler when she sees the dress stained with water, but it is only water. It will dry.

By the time the rain is finished, evening has spread across the sky. A cool, dry breeze picks up from the water. My stomach rumbles hungrily, reminding me that I ate little at breakfast and nothing at midday. I stand, slide my feet back into the slippers, and turn back to the castle, pausing at the entrance of the dining hall to smooth down the wrinkled, still-damp skirt. Conversation leaks through the thick doors, lighter and more animated that it had been this morning, punctuated with some soft laughter. The break in the heat seems to have broken the bad moods.

I slip into the hall and move through the courtiers to the food table, my head bowed to avoid the odd looks they give me for my wet skirt. The dining hall is grey, reflecting the broken cloud cover visible through the windows. Servants strike the lights, but the candles only illuminate the room, not lighten it. Despite conversation and laughter, the mood is melancholy, a more reflective and less passionate feeling than before, yet still dreary. I eat a cold chicken leg and some fruit—nothing hot, not tonight—searching the room.

Edmund is not here.

I scan every face twice trying to find him, but my efforts are wasted. He is not in the hall. There is only one other place I can think to look; if he is not there, then I will not see him tonight. I hand my dirty plate to a servant who scurries past and leave the dining hall. The corridor is dim, comfortable for my eyes after the lights of the room. At the glass doors, I pause. Light leaks out the doors from a room on the right. With a deep breath and another swipe against the wrinkles in my skirt, I pull open the window-doors and step out onto the balcony.

As I hoped he would be, Edmund is leaning against the thick railing, his back to me. I freeze where I am, two paces behind him, until he turns and notices me, until the sound of my name from his lips assures me that I will not be sent away again. Then I cover the last two paces between us and stand at the railing beside him.

"No one told you?" Edmund asks after a moment. I shake my head. He is silent for a minute before saying, bluntly and without looking at me, "My father died ten years ago today."

Admittedly, I had expected something of the sort. But to hear him say it aloud makes me ache for the Honnaleians, for the queen, and most especially for Edmund. I well remember the pain that had accompanied my mother's death, and I had been only two years old at the time and cannot recall my mother at all; I can only imagine how it would hurt if I could remember her. Wanting to offer him what comfort I can, I take his hand and hold it tightly.

"He was never healthy, I suppose, more prone to illness than anyone. What was the sniffles for one courtier could turn into a month-long sickness for him." An unsteady smile flickers across his face and immediately vanishes. His skin is hot, and his fingers are shaking. I grip his hand and will him to continue. "It was the plague that killed him, though. We all had it—Mother and me and the servants and half the country. It killed a lot of people, but not…not anyone I actually knew. Until it killed my father.

"He was an incredible person, generous and wise and kind and all the things that make someone a great king. He was fun, too, and he always remembered to have time for Mother and me, which I hear is not common for a king, to have time for his family."

My thoughts drift momentarily to my father. He rarely had more than just a few words on some special occasion for my sisters or me. I had always wished that he had been a little more involved in my life.

Edmund glances down, another unsteady smile on his face that is gone before it can settle. "He and I—we used to pick on Katrina until she would threaten to quit. And then, one morning, the physician came in and said that he was sorry, but there was nothing he could do anymore, and he just wasn't there anymore, and I…miss…him…" Edmund fights to force the last words from between his clenched teeth but cannot add anything more. He bows his head and squeezes his eyes closed, his shoulders visibly shaking and his breath broken up into hard, trembling gasps.

There are many things I do not understand. I do not know why the moon changes shape every night. I do not know why human food smells good and tastes better. But if there is one thing in this world that I do understand, that thing is pain, especially the kind of pain that accompanies losing someone loved—because, no matter if one is human or mermaid, from land or sea, the loss of loved ones is still the same. It is that kind of agony that now tears across Edmund.

I know very well there is nothing I can do to help, because there is never anything anyone can do to soothe that kind of hurt, but I hate the helplessness that surges through me. And, despite knowing that nothing I do could heal the pain, I want to so badly that my chest aches with the yearning. So, with a gentle tug that turns Edmund toward me and frees my hand from his tight, hot grasp, I put my arms around him and hold him tightly, working from memories of how my sisters comforted each other the day of my mother's funeral. A choked noise escapes Edmund's throat, and he buries his face against my shoulder, sobbing properly now. His tears wet my nearly dried sleeve.

Tears. I know the word from the signing books, but I have never actually encountered them before. They are one of only two things I know about that absolutely and uniquely human; no other creature in this world or my father's world can shed tears, just as no other creature on land or in sea has a soul.

I feel wretched for sharpening, rather than easing, Edmund's pain. I never, never once over all the months I have spent thinking of him, considered that someday I might actually hurt him. Angry with myself, I clutch Edmund closer, stroking his hair the way I myself have always found soothing.

I hold him until his tears are spent and his breathing steadies, until he lifts his head and looks at me. His hair is rumpled, and his eyes are reddish, and I again feel horrible, responsible. _I am sorry,_ I apologize hastily. _I never meant—_

Edmund stops me by grabbing my hands and holding them between his. Then, unexpectedly, he smiles. "Don't apologize, Grace," he requests. "I've needed that all day. Thank you."

As his mother had this morning, he thanks me for something I do not understand. It could not be what I did, because I am distinctly aware that it was my touch that had brought out his tears. But, regardless, I am relieved that he is not upset at me. I suppose grasping the feelings that accompany tears is something only humans can do. It is not for a mermaid like me to understand.

Edmund releases my right hand to tug at the bottom of his shirt and run a hand through his hair, quickly straightening his appearance. He then smiles again, only a little shakily. His skin is still unusually warm, though not as hot as before, and still slightly damp. "You're something impossible, aren't you?" he asks. "Today has been the hottest, stickiest day in ten years, but you are just as cool and dry as ever." I smile. Like magical, "impossible" is a relative term.

Later, while standing in front of the door to my room, Edmund takes my hand. His mood is vastly improved from this morning, but still visible in his eyes is the raw edge of the wound his father's death had left. I would give a great deal to be able to ease its sting, but I know I cannot. No one ever can. That is simply the way the death of someone loved works. The hole that that someone leaves will always be a little raw, a little sore, no matter how much time goes by, no matter who or what steps in to fill some of that empty space. I squeeze Edmund's hand, knowing full well how that raw edge can hurt.

"You understand this, don't you," Edmund mutters—stating, not asking.

I nod. _My mother died when I was young,_ I reply, my signing stilted because I do not want to let go of Edmund's hand to answer properly. Thinking back on the day of my mother's death makes me pause for a moment, turns my thoughts toward my family. I have lost more than just my mother; rushing off to become human lost me the rest of my family as well. _And I miss my sisters and father and grandmother. A lot,_ I add.

"You left them when you left your home?" he surmises. I nod again. "You could go home, you know. There's nothing that would prevent you if you wanted to. It would be a simple matter to arrange transportation." He grins. "I'dfuss worse than Katrina if you thought of leaving, of course, but that wouldn't have to stop you if you ever want to go home."

I shake my head. Even if I someday had the means to go back to my father's palace, I would never have the desire to. Life as a mermaid, without Edmund, would be entirely unbearable.

"And you certainly don't have to go if you don't want to," Edmund adds, whispering now. "I know my mother will never tell you that you can't stay here. She likes having you around."

_And you?_ I wonder, only mostly teasing.

With his free hand, he lightly strokes back an errant wisp of my hair. His expression is entirely serious. "I want you with me, Grace. Always. Through everything."

I bite my lip, my heart suddenly pounding at my ribcage as though trying to break free of my body. Something tells me that he does not mean what he says in the way I am tempted to construe it, but nothing he could have said would match my feelings more perfectly. _I will be here as long as you want me,_ I promise.

"Forever, then?" he wonders, his voice soft.

I smile. _Forever._

"Good." He kisses my forehead, as gently as always, then, before pulling away, whispers, so quietly my sharp mermaid ears have to strain to hear, "I love you."

It is strange how three of the smallest words in the human language can have so much power; there is more force in those three little words than there had been in all the frightening strength of the sea, in all the desire I have ever felt before. Edmund loves me. If that is true, then nothing else really matters—not pain or fear or anything else this or my father's world could conjure to convince me I made a mistake. If that is true, then let the soulless nothingness of death come. I would accept it gladly, free of regrets.


	14. The Cliff

Autumn arrives with blazing color. For weeks, oranges and yellows have been gently tinting the edges of the trees' green leaves, but the color was small, muted, and barely noticeable. Then, one sunny, breezy morning, the color explodes from its confinement. Every leaf of every tree shines with some new color, from rusty yellow to flaming red, greenish-orange to purple-black. Mist hovers like a thin veil across the ground in the early morning, shadows of trees and buildings slicing visibly through the air against the butter-yellow sunlight. The air is clean and cool, perfumed by the smokey-sweet odor of falling leaves; the heat and harsh sun of summer fades, and a sense of expectancy and anticipation fills the world of air. Humans begin to dig up new and thicker clothing. Merchants in Tahron shout about fresh fruit dried for the winter. "Is your house ready for the coming snow?" townspeople ask each other. "Are all your woolens mended from last year? Are all your crops in? Do you have enough food?" And if the answer to even one of those questions is "no," then everyone bustles around the town trying to rectify the situation.

Humans in the castle are noticeably less wary of the "coming snow" than the townspeople; they take autumn as it comes, enjoying the beauty of it without fretting over what is coming at its end. I suspect their relaxed manner comes from knowing that their building is secure, their food plentiful, and their clothing warm. Picnics to the tops of the cliffs are common outings. The view from such a vantage point is said to be unparalleled, but, despite my nagging desire to see the cliff-top sights, concern for my feet has prevented me from joining any of the picnic expeditions, until one morning when Katrina—leading me back to my room from the library—invites me along on one. "The queen and the prince want you to come especially," she tells me.

Of course I agree. I would cross the world if Edmund wanted me to; a hike up to the top of a cliff could not be as difficult.

Until this morning, the shoes I have worn have always been soft slippers that, while not reducing the pain, have never encouraged it. The shoes Katrina laces my feet into now are stiff leather that push relentlessly against all sides of my burning feet. They are heavy and clumpy, and it takes all of my natural grace to walk normally, and every ounce of free will to keep my face smooth.

The group to picnic on the cliffs today is small: only the queen, her most intimate friend Lady Stephania, a handful of servants—Katrina among them, I notice with an irrepressible smile—and Edmund, who grins so happily at seeing me that I instantly repent of all the selfish though I have had concerning my feet. "You'll love the view from the cliff," he promises as I move to stand next to him. "It's unarguably the most amazing sight in all of Honnaleigh."

The hike, lead by the queen, starts midmorning, just as the coolness of the autumn night finishes its fade into the warmth of the day. The path we walk down is the same gently winding road that leads into the town, but, before reaching the outskirts of Tahron, we turn sharply left, following what appears to be a trail made by the tramping of a hundred shoes. Golden-yellow sunlight filters through the leaves of the trees, casting an orange-red glow on everyone and everything. I lag behind the more avid hikers, marveling at the trees in the sunlight. The fallen leaves, dulled to brown by death, crunch pleasantly beneath my shoes and swirl in little eddies of breeze, rustling their sadness at no longer being a live and vibrant part of their stems.

The faint sound of Katrina's grumbling breaks into the magic of this path, and I turn toward her. "A woman of my age," she mutters, readjusting the large basket that dangles across her arm, "and they have me hike up a cliff carrying the food."

I had intended to silence the old servant, to try and reclaim the spell cast by the leaves in the sunshine, but I find myself feeling sorry for Katrina, that she has to carry the food, so I hold out my arms to help her. She slaps my gesture away. "I don't need your help, girl. I am perfectly capable of walking up this hill without you." She passes by me without another word, and I smile to myself. Pride is a strange emotion, irrational and illogical, and it makes people behave oddly. Katrina's steps fade slowly from my hearing, and the path is silent again.

The path begins to grow rocky as it steepens; the rocks push against the soles of these thick boots and poke my already-hurting feet. I stumble and catch hold of a branch, using its sturdiness to steady me, and press my forehead against the rough bark of the trunk, trying with all my will to ignore the pain, to concentrate instead on the sound of the breeze in the branches, the smell of fallen leaves that hangs in the air.

Fingers brush my elbow. "Grace?" Edmund says, his voice soft with concern. "Are you feeling all right?"

I nod, probably unconvincingly, without lifting my head from the tree.

"Because we can go back to the castle if you're not feeling well—"

I straighten, interrupting him with a vigorous shake of my head. _I am feeling fine,_ I lie. _I want to see the top of the cliff._ Edmund takes my hand, skeptical but resigned, and holds it all the way to the summit. If I lean into him more at the end than I do at the start of the hike, he does not comment on it.

We gain the clearing at the summit just after midday. The servants have spread out a blanket and the food, and the queen and her friend recline on the ground and nibble at the breads and cheeses, dried fruits and cold meats. I cross the clearing, eager to see the view for which I had tramped up here in these stiff, painful shoes. I am not disappointed.

Ocean as far as I can see stretches out in front of me and to both sides. The jagged coastline of Honnaleigh arches back from the point I stand on, like a bird straining its wings. Far to the left, the castle stands guard over its shore, the windows of the dining hall winking in the sun. I inch toward the edge of the cliff and glance down, my head whirling at the sight. One misstep this close to the edge, and I would tumble down for a hundred lengths with nothing to catch me until I crashed into the rocks below that shred the waves into foaming torrents. I move back a half-step, until the footing feels again like solid land. It is all too easy for me to imagine how it would feel to leap from the cliff, too easy for me to picture myself in the midst of that wild freefall, nothing but wind thrilling through my head, to see myself flying as I plummeted into the sea. I shiver and shake my head, trying to dislodge the image.

"Well? What do you think of it?" Edmund asks. His eyes shine with anxious anticipation, as if he is worried that I might think the climb unworthy of the effort.

_It is spectacular,_ I reply. _This is what birds must see, how flying must feel._

Edmund grins and scans the horizon. "I've always thought so. It's a shame humans are earthbound creatures."

A breeze picks up from the water, bearing the salty scent of the ocean with it, cleansing and cool. I throw my head back and close my eyes, just breathing deeply. _Maybe we do not have to be earthbound,_ I suggest impulsively. _Maybe we can fly. Maybe all we need to do is try._ I stretch out my arms; the wind swirls around me, sweeping against my skin, fluttering the hems of my skirt and sleeves, nudging its way through my hair. And, for one single moment, my pain and regret slip from my body and take that reckless hundred-length dive into the ocean, leaving me free of everything but the sensation of the wind on my skin and the faint roar of the sea in my ears.

Then the queen's voice cuts in from behind. "Edmund, Grace, come have something to eat," she calls from where she is sitting in the middle of the clearing. At her words, the wind falls away, and the pain in my feet flares almost nauseatingly. I drop my arms and open my eyes, disappointment briefly weighing down and replacing joy.

As I turn away from the edge of the cliff to face the clearing again, I notice Edmund staring at me, the expression on his face entirely incomprehensible—eyebrows drawn together as though confused, lips half-smiling as though pleased. I lift my hands a little, palms up, in a gesture that resembles but does not quite make the sign for "what?" He only shakes his head and walks with me back to the blanket across which all the food has been spread.

We eat lazily, listening to the anxious twittering of the few birds that plan to winter on the cliffs. The queen and Lady Stephania jabber about things I do not understand—court gossip, I imagine, things that make them gasp and exclaim, "He didn't!" and "I say!" Their reactions are amusing, and I smile slightly every time either one declares her disbelief. Edmund glances at me occasionally, sometimes smiling as if this picnic on the cliff has completed his existence, sometimes looking thoughtful as though he is trying to work through a complicated but not pressing problem. Silence rests between us, but it is an easy silence that does not require breaking up with conversation, so we allow it to stay.

The sun moves across the western sky at an unhurried pace that causes me to forget about time. I lean back on my elbows, my eyes closed and my face tilted up, not allowing myself to think about anything except how perfect this is. The breeze in my hair, the warmth on my skin, Edmund less than an arm's-length away—there is nothing that could spoil the contentment of the moment.

Only when the queen's exclamation over the time breaks through my abstraction do I sit up and open my eyes. The servants have packed away the food, and the sunlight, softly yellow before, now has an orange cast to it as it begins to slip from the sky and into the sea. "The sun's going down," the queen points out. "If we want to be home before dusk, we should've left an hour ago." She and Lady Stephania stand and brush the dirt from their skirts.

Edmund glances at me. "That sounded like a 'time to go,'" he mutters regretfully. I nod. With a sigh, he shoves himself to his feet, and I scramble up after him, flinching in pain. The servants fold up the blanket, and our little picnic group starts the long walk back.

Coming up had been difficult. Going down is excruciating. My feet are still sore from the hike up, and the steep downward slope brings my weight down on them with extreme and brutal force. I keep my head up and my eyes locked on the wrinkle of fabric on the back of the queen's dress, trying to ignore the fact that I can feel each and every step shooting up my legs more strongly than the last. My rigid posture does not fool Edmund, who walks beside me with his eyebrows drawn in confusion, unable to figure the reason for the obvious pain on my features.

The sun sets, spurting its last rays of red and gold and pink across the sea and sky, just as we enter the dining hall. All the lights have been struck; the room glows. I sink into the nearest chair and bury my face in my hands. My fingers, I notice with a rush of shame, are shaking, and my throat is tight and clogged. The sudden thought that maybe this is the way humans feel before shedding tears wanders through my head. But my eyes are dry. I no more have tears than I do a voice, or a soul.

I had told myself—swore to myself—that I would never allow the humans to know how painful it is for me to live in their world. And now, I am curled up in a chair, ready but unable to cry, my agony obvious to even the least observant humans. Still hidden by my still-shaking hands, my expression fights to smooth out of the twisted grimace into which it is frozen. Then, gaining some success, I drop my hands and look up, determined to disregard the way my feet are protesting. A grim smile crosses my face. Pride, I think for the second time today, is a strange emotion.

But my intention to carry on as if nothing is wrong is a worthless one, because Edmund is standing next to the chair, concern weighing down his beautiful black eyes. I did not fool him for a moment this evening. "Grace," he asks, so quietly that the noise of the other humans in the room almost makes him inaudible, "what's wrong?"

_My feet hurt,_ I admit, looking away. _They__are not used to so much walking._

"Maybe you should get some sleep."

I had intended to smile, but my lips refuse to cooperate, and I end up frowning slightly instead. _Maybe I should,_ I agree. The thought of standing up makes me wince. However, there is no other way to my room. I lay my hands flat against the arms of the chair and shove myself to my feet. The cry of pain in my mouth is forcefully stopped by my clenched teeth. I walk slowly, as smoothly as I can manage, concentrating very hard on uncurling my fingers. It takes a long time to reach the dark, twisting corridor.

Edmund follows a half-step behind me. When I reach the door to my room, I turn toward him, and he touches my elbow. "Get some sleep," he mutters. This time, my lips respond as intended, and I smile. He kisses my forehead, gentle as always, momentarily scattering all feelings save a sudden flare of happiness. But the release does not last long—only long enough for him to wish me a good night and stride back down the corridor.

I open my door, sit on the edge of the bed, and yank off the wretched stiff shoes. I had planned to just leave them on the floor for Katrina to deal with, but, as I set them neatly by the bed, I notice a thin line of silver running down the inside of each sole. For a moment, I stare at the shoes, wondering why someone had placed a necklace chain into my footwear. Then, as I reach into the right shoe to pull out the silver and my stomach lurches in a familiar uncomfortable way, I understand: the lines of silver are not evidence of some odd human custom of putting chains into hiking shoes; they are streaks of my own blood. With an audible cry of frustration, I shove the shoes under the bed and hope Katrina will not find them so she never has to wonder about the strange stripes down the soles.

Once the shoes are safely stashed beneath the bed, I prop my left foot onto my right knee and examine the bottom. It has clearly bled during the day; there are small spots of greyish crust on my heel and toes that, when touched, produce a few beads of fresh blood. I fall back onto the bed and cover my face with my hands. Dressela never said that my feet would bleed, only that they would hurt. I cannot leave them like this. They need some kind of tending, and I cannot ask any of the humans for help—any human would be repulsed by the color of my blood.

It is still early in the evening, and Katrina is still in the kitchen, but I undress anyway. Standing as little as possible, I worm my way out of the day dress and undergarments, pull on my nightgown, and curl up against the pillows, pulling the blankets all the way up to my chin and waiting for a chance to leave the castle without being seen.


	15. Visit

I wait until there has been no sound outside my door for nearly an hour, until I am sure that all humans in the castle are soundly asleep in their beds. Then, biting my finger as a distraction from the pain, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand. My feet protest sickeningly, but I bite down on my finger and am able to contain the cry that rises in my throat. I ease noiselessly out of my room and down the dark corridor, glancing at the floor behind me once to make sure I am not leaving silver-grey footprints to mark my steps. No humans cross my path. With my silvery skin and white nightgown, I probably look like a spirit—a ghost, I think, forcibly distracting myself by trying a word my ever-expanding human vocabulary recently acquired. This dark maze of a corridor could certainly be a place fittingly haunted by such an apparition.

Eventually, I step out into the crisp autumn night. The breeze bears a sharp edge of cold; the moon filters weakly through a thin covering of clouds. The castle's golden lights have all been extinguished. Windows glint from the faint reflection of the moon off the ocean. Toward the east, jagged cliffs, inky black and imposing, cut into the greyish sky. Eerie, I think. Magical, but eerie.

I walk down the steps—even the gold of the railing shines dimly silver—stumbling once when my right foot fumbles over a loose marble brick. I can feel the crust on my right heel fall off as I stumble. Containing the cry of pain requires pressing my teeth so hard into my finger that I wonder if my finger will also be bleeding by the time I make it down to the water.

There are sixty-six steps from the castle to the sea: sixty-six of the most agonizing steps I have ever taken. Finally, finally, I reach the second step up from the sea, sit, and dip my bare feet into the cold water. The burning pain subsides almost instantaneously, and I sigh in relief and extract my finger from between my teeth. Impressions of my bite crisscross my forefinger, nearly breaking through the skin in a few places, but nowhere is my finger actually bleeding.

Slowly, the pain in my feet eases enough for me to think of other things, and my thoughts, drawn toward the sea by the soft sound of water against the marble steps, begin to drift aimlessly over my family. My father's castle must be bustling with preparations for Andante's wedding. I wonder how my temperamental older sister is handling the stress. I hope someone is keeping my flowerbed in order; I know how quickly weeds can sprout amongst untended flowers.

The usual soft tingles of regret shiver through me as I think about my family, my flowers, and I wish there were some way for me to return, just for a visit. I would love to see Andante's wedding…

Shaking my head, I force that wish away. I am happy here. Happier than I ever had been or ever could have hoped to be in the sea. My feet hurt a little—as if to reassert its importance, the pain flares into my consciousness—and sometimes I feel a little heart-sore from missing my sisters and father and grandmother, but that does not matter. For the chances these aches have given me, I would have sacrificed a thousand times more than just my comfort. A mermaid, I have found, has only one heart to give, and, once it has been given, she will follow after it until she is nothing but froth on the waves. My heart landed here, in this castle, with these humans. With Edmund. And there is nothing, no aches and pains, no regrets or admonishments, that could make me think I did not make the correct choice.

Edmund—kind, attentive, affectionate, beautiful Edmund—is worth everything I have, and then another thousand times more.

The clouds eventually break from the sky, and the moon shines fully on the shimmering surface of the water. The human world is so beautiful, I marvel, looking up to see what stars are visible through the rips in the clouds. It is strange that such excessive beauty can pierce me with an emotion like sadness. I smile to myself. I have spent so much time with humans that their tendency toward unreasonable feelings has rubbed off on me.

A splash from the water draws my attention away from the sky. The tip of a tailfin splits the smooth surface. Then, slowly, a head of long dark hair and eyes of seaweed green peek out of the water. We stare at each other for a moment before, at the same instant, recognition dawns on us both.

"Aria!" the mermaid calls to me, her voice dimmed by water.

Harmony! my lips return.

Harmony swims to the stairs and stares at me as though she cannot believe what her eyes are seeing. "Aria? Is that really you?" she wonders. I hold out my hands to her, wanting to prove that I am not just an image, a ghost, and she takes them and squeezes my fingers until the pressure begins to hurt. "Curse you, you half-witted little fish," she mutters, her voice too quiet and choked to sound as angry as her words are clearly meant to be, almost what humans would call a sob. "Have you been here all this time?"

I bite my lip, the delight I had felt in first seeing her melting into a sudden stab of regret for hurting her, and nod slowly.

"Aria," Harmony says again. She tugs my hands below the surface and kisses them quickly. "What has happened to you? We have all been sick with worry and grief for a whole season thinking you had suffocated." I shake my head, unable to answer. "What have you done to yourself?" she begs, desperate now. "Aria, please. Tell me."

I shake my head again and squeeze her hands, willing her quick mind to realize that I cannot tell her. This fact hits her suddenly, and she asks, "Have you have done something to your ability to speak, then?" I nod. "You went to see the sea witch, and she took away your tail and gills and voice in exchange for _legs_!" I nod again. Harmony's brow pinches together, and her eyes narrow in accusation. "And for what?"

We stare at each other for a long moment, her expression hurt and a little angry, mine still brightened by a smile. "A human," Harmony answers herself after a moment, as if the word "human"—the word that had always been almost as magical a word to her as it had been to me—is the most malevolent curse she could imagine. "You gave up your tail and voice and gills, made everyone who loves you sick with dread for months, for one…stupid…human." The last words fall slowly from her mouth, ring harshly against the surface of the water.

While her frustration is directed at me, I can overlook it, knowing that she means none of it. But her bitterness turns now toward Edmund, and now her words cut me to the bone. I pull my hands away from her and hold her gaze as best I can. _I love him,_ I tell her, despite the fact that she cannot understand me. _Surely you can understand that. You would have done the same thing had Opus been a human._

But Harmony does not understand me; she only appears more confused. "Aria, you have put us through so much terror and pain. Is there any way you can regain your natural shape and come home?"

Just the idea makes me flinch. Return to the sea? Leave this magical world to again be the miserable little mermaid I had been? Live my life without Edmund? Never. Impossible. Even if I somehow could turn my legs back into a tail, I never would. I would never _want_ to. I shake my head for Harmony's benefit, thinking that it was an absurd question for her to ask. As if the world of water has any appeal for me at all!

Harmony watches me, the beginnings of some other emotion—maybe happiness—showing in her eyes. "I am so glad to see you, little sister, to know you are alive and well. We have all been so worried about you! Father has begun to plan your funeral, everyone is so certain you are dead." Her eyes flash from my face to my legs and back up again; she smiles broadly at me and lifts herself from the water with one arm and flings the other around me. Her skin is wet and cold and smells of kelp and seawater. I return her embrace, surprised by how alien her touch feels. As Aria, I found nothing more comforting than the brush of my oldest sister's cool fingers. As Grace, however, I have grown accustomed—and undoubtedly fond—of the warmth of human skin, and Harmony's touch makes me shiver.

My sister says little else, only promises to bring the other four here tomorrow night, if I would like to see them. "They may not believe me," she warns. "We have all been mourning you for so long. They may not come. But I will try. I will be back tomorrow night, hopefully with our other sisters." She pulls herself again from the water, this time to kiss my cheek. "Take care, you foolish little fish," she mutters once she has settled back in the water. Then, with a last weary look, she dives backwards and swims away.

The sun is just breaking over the cliffs as I stand and hurry back into the castle. My nightgown is soaked through with salt water, and my hair reeks of kelp. Katrina will probably scold and demand to know what I was doing.

The old servant does scold, all through the bath she forces me to take. She fusses about how my hair smells like seaweed and about how my nightgown might well be permanently ruined. "Stained all the way through," she announces, holding the proof of my transgression to my face as I step into the day's petticoats. "What could you have possibly been doing that would make you so wet? Haven't you learned that swimming alone, at night, is dangerous? Tides are fussy this time of year. Do you _want_ to drown, you foolish girl?"

Her words and tone sour my already volatile mood, and I sulk out of my room and down the corridor. I had thought that seeing Harmony would leave me feeling cheerful and content. Instead, it has left me filled with a vague, itchy irritation that is all the more annoying for my inability to pin it on someone specific. At least Edmund greets me with a smile. "What have you done to make Katrina complain so loudly? I could hear her all the way from my room," he says.

I smile reluctantly. _I got wet last night,_ I admit. _My feet were hurting badly, so I went to cool them in the water, and I got wet._

"Well, don't feel too bad about it." Edmund puts one arm around my shoulders for a brief but comforting moment. "I'm sure you've noticed how much Katrina can fuss, but you should know that she doesn't mean anything by it. She's only happy when she's complaining." He grins again, and I grin back, more brightly than last time. The vague irritation shatters and falls away under his sunny smile. "Besides, a little bit of salt water can't hurt a nightgown."

_Tell Katrina that,_ I counter. Edmund's smile widens, his eyes crinkling at the corners the way they do when he is genuinely amused, and I have to look away before I can breathe again.

The day proceeds in its usual patterns. After breakfast, Edmund and I head to the library. I am working very hard to learn to read and write, and, to that end, we have been spending the majority of the day in the library. Over the weeks, I have also discovered a talent for drawing, and I greatly enjoy listening to Edmund read aloud and sketching out the pictures his words bring to my mind. The most recent stories have been from a large, thick book called Holy Bible; the stories in that book are incredible—vivid and horrifying and funny, sometimes all at once. Donkeys scold their riders, water destroys the world of air, people are nailed to wooden planks and left to die. But I love it all, and I am slowly learning to decipher the letters into words, and the words into stories.

I find myself almost dreading the coming night. Facing Harmony unexpectedly had been difficult. Facing all five of my older sisters is bound to be horrible. Without being able to explain or defend myself, I will be silently at their mercy. They would never do anything to hurt me physically, but I know that my disappearance had wounded them, perhaps beyond reconciliation. When I think of Andante, of the temper in her silver eyes, my stomach lurches. She, if no one else, will give me a tongue-lashing to make any angry parent proud.

Edmund kisses me goodnight, lightly on the forehead as usual. It has become a custom—a habit—for him, so much so that I doubt he even notices it anymore. But I do. I notice the way his warm skin feels against mine, the way his breath tickles as he whispers goodnight. It does not matter that this touch is as common and predictable as the night itself; it never ceases to make my heart jump, always makes me afraid to even think or breathe lest the motion somehow send me back into a blighted life in the sea. Tonight especially, I cling to the feeling, and I pause to check myself before stepping outside. Grace is a happy creature, content in ways that Aria never even knew existed. It is Grace, not Aria, that goes now to see my sisters.

Sucking in a deep breath and calling to mind the fact that Edmund loves me—fortitude enough against a whole legion of angry sisters, I am sure—I walk from the palace and down the marble steps toward the sea.


	16. Interrogation

I wait. Harmony had promised to be back in the night—hopefully with my four other sisters in tow—but dawn is pressing into the sky before tailfins break the surface. Then, one after another, five pairs of eyes peer up at me. "Aria!" five sweet soprano voices call to me, muffled by the fact that they must be used while below the surface. A mermaid's voice is unintelligible in air.

My sisters, my lips greet them, flickering into a smile.

All but Harmony converge on me. I had not anticipated their enthusiasm; in only a minute, Andante's surprisingly violent embrace pulls me from my perch on the step and into the water. I gasp, more shocked than afraid, as I lose my grip on the railing and cling instead to Andante's shoulders. Andante clutches me fiercely. "You are alive!" she whispers in amazement.

Allegro elbows Andante aside, spins me around once, and kisses my cheek. Melody and Rhythm fling their arms around me before Allegro releases me, crushing me in the middle of a huddle that Andante quickly joins; Harmony remains quietly to one side, allowing my other four sisters to greet me. They talk overtop of each other until it is impossible to pick one voice out from amongst the others. "We all thought…" "What has happened…" "Have you been…" "…Foolish…" "…All these months…" "Why did you…" "…Suffocated…" "…Drowned…" "…Foolish…"

"Foolish little mermaid!" they all shriek at me once they break apart from their huddle. I kick my way back to the steps and haul myself onto the marble, awkwardly but safely. Water streams off the hems of my nightgown.

"Aria, do you have any idea, any notion, of what your disappearance has put us through?" Andante demands. "Grandmother was just about mad with worry for weeks, until Father managed to convince her you were dead. Thinking you were _dead_ was the only way Grandmother could be consoled. Consider that the next time you think of swimming off to the sea witch without telling us!"

She says so as though she thinks there could ever _be_ a next time, as if she expects me to follow them back into the sea. I smile at my sisters and shake my head. Harmony, at least, seems to understand the expression. "She cannot come home, Andante," she mutters.

"What do you mean, 'she cannot come home'? She must come home! We need her!" Andante retaliates, her voice angry. Allegro, Rhythm, and Melody nod at her assessment.

Harmony puts her arm around Andante's aggravated shoulders and reaches for Melody's hand. "No, my sisters. What Aria has done is done for life. She can never return to us."

A hushed but agonized cry floats up from my sisters' throats. I wince. Their despair cuts me more deeply than their anger ever could. I had never intended to hurt them; truthfully, I had not thought of them at all the day I went to the sea witch. Even so, I hate that I had injured them.

Harmony glances east, toward the pink streaks in the sky that are the heralds of the sun. "The humans will be awake soon," she says, "and Father and Grandmother will be wondering where we are. Come, we have a long swim ahead of us." She touches the back of my hand with her fingertips. "We will return as we are able, Aria. Take care of yourself." Beckoning to the rest of my sisters, she dives beneath the surface.

Andante turns before following after Allegro. She grabs my hand in both of hers, squeezing it until my fingers ache, and tugs me nearer to the water. "Harmony is lying," she hisses. "You _can_ come home. You _can_. Not now, perhaps," she adds in response to my shaking head, "but someday. Someday _soon_. Just wait." With a sad smile, she kisses my fingers. "I will take care of you, Aria. I will help you come home. I promise." Then she hurries after Allegro's tailfin.

I watch her leave, aware of the humorless smile that has settled on my face. To my knowledge, Andante has never broken a promise. But I do not know of any way that going back could even be possible. I stand, water from my nightgown dripping against the steps. I do not need it to be possible; I do not want to go back.

"Heavens, girl!" Katrina exclaims when her path crosses mine on the way to my room. She takes in my sodden nightgown with a ferocious frown on her face. "Don't bother to explain. I don't want to know." Scowling, she pushes me into the nearest bathroom, announcing for the entire castle to hear that I am the strangest person alive, sentiments constantly repeated throughout the course of the dressing ritual. I wonder vaguely if all the stress I cause her will someday turn her mad. I shudder at the thought. I have already caused more problems than I had ever intended; being responsible for one more would be too excessive to be allowed.

In all, Katrina's comments are not reminding me why I want to be human.

Thankfully, Edmund is better at lightening my mood than Katrina is. "Good morning, Grace," he greets me, wearing one of his oversized smiles. I smile in return. It surprises me to realize how much I needed to hear him call me Grace.

"Hmph! Move along now, both of you. Not all of us can afford to stand here in the hallway," Katrina orders from behind. She does not usually follow me toward the dining hall, claiming that her status as housemaid does not allow her in the courtiers' presence during meals. But as she pushes past me and toward the hall, I begin to suspect that she has been lying.

Edmund watches her back with his eyebrows raised. "You've really upset her," he observes, grinning, his voice faintly awed.

I bite my lip and look at my feet. An unusual heat, brought on by a stab of guilt, floods my face. I am botching everything today.

"Don't feel bad about it. I would pay money to be able to irritate her that much sometimes. She'll forgive you. She always does." He takes my hand and squeezes my fingers gently, and I exhale, realizing only now that I have been holding my breath.

Distracted by strawberries and plans for the day, I do not immediately notice the unusual hush in the dining hall. Eventually, when it finally occurs to me that I have not heard one courtier speak one sentence since I entered the room, I look up from my plate, curious. All of the courtiers are staring toward the back corner of the hall, where Katrina is gesticulating wildly to the queen. The old servant is speaking so quietly that even my ears cannot hear her words.

The queen watches her, her eyes focused with attention; then, at the end of Katrina's rant, a golden laugh, merry and surprised, fills the room. I have never heard the queen laugh before, and, when I imagined it, I had always thought it would be deeper, quieter, the laugh of a dignified female who bears the weight of an entire country on her shoulders, rather than the bright, eager laugh of a young girl. "Mercy, Katrina, you cannot be serious!" she exclaims, loudly enough to hear.

"But I am, ma'am. Quite serious," Katrina counters. "She's something unnatural, I've known all along. At first, it was amusing, but now, I'm sure she's up to no good. She never sleeps. She spends the nights wandering all over the castle and swimming in the ocean, and it's suspicious, I tell you!"

And, with a jolt of sudden horror, I understand that she is talking about me.

Edmund hisses through his teeth a sound that almost, but not quite, becomes a word. Katrina and the queen glance at me; the courtiers, tense from interest, stare openly. I shudder and bow my head, glad that my hair falls forward and hides my face, glad to feel the touch of Edmund's hand on my shoulder.

"Well," the queen decides, her voice even and moderate, "perhaps we should ask her."

I hear and sense, rather than see, the way the humans in the room rearrange themselves around me. Final judgment in the sea is given this way, with all the merfolk who wish to see grouped into a circle around the accused. I shudder again and feel Edmund's fingers tense.

"Grace." I look up to see the queen looking down at me. Her face is perfectly smooth, her voice tightly controlled. No indication of any emotions so much as suggests itself in her stance or demeanor. "You needn't fear, Grace. No one is going to hurt you. We are just curious."

Just curious. Like a shark is just curious about its next meal.

"So tell us honestly, who are you?"

I glance around, at the semicircle of courtiers who are staring at me with naked curiosity burning in their eyes. Obedient, I answer the queen just as she instructed: honestly. _I am Grace,_ I reply, my hands shaking. _I am eighteen years old. My mother died when I was two. I have five older sisters, a father, and a grandmother._ I hesitate. Everyone continues to watch me expectantly. _What else do you want to know?_ If I had been speaking, the question would have come out as a shriek.

"Nothing," Edmund whispers fiercely. "And you don't have to answer anything if you don't want to."

The queen glances at him with a firm expression that cannot rightly be called a glare, but its intent to silence is clear. "You adopted the name Grace after coming here," she then continues to me. When she pauses for confirmation, I nod, determined to tell as much truth as possible. "It is not the name your parents gave you."

I shake my head slightly. _It is not. But you asked me who I am, not who I was._ From the corner of my eye, I see Edmund flash a smile. _Who I was is not important._

"Who is your father?"

I shake my head again. "The king of the merfolk" sounds ridiculous even to me. _That is also not important,_ I tell her.

"Make her answer," a few courtiers beg, but Edmund's glare silences them. If Edmund were not standing here with me in the center of this final judgment circle, I think my knees would not have the strength to stand. As it is, even with him here, they are shaking dangerously.

The queen does not press me on the subject of my family. Instead, she continues calmly down her mental list of questions. "How long have you been unable to speak?"

_Not much longer than I have been here,_ I reply, still striving for honesty.

"Why were you suddenly unable to speak anymore?"

"Mother!" Edmund protests.

"Let her answer the question as she wishes, Edmund," the queen commands in that same firm tone.

I risk breaking the queen's gaze to glance at Edmund. He watches me, his jaw set against the curiosity that blazes in his eyes. His mother is asking all the questions he has so carefully kept to himself all this time, and, though perhaps disliking the manner, he is as eager as anyone to find out the answers. I wish suddenly, desperately, that I had answered his questions before this. Privately, without the court and servants and queen as an audience. I wish there was no curiosity in his eyes, and I gather by the tension in his jaw that he wishes the same.

Never to anyone have I shown or mentioned the stub that Dressela's knife left of my tongue, because I have been afraid that it might be repulsive, and I know it will bring on a round of questions about what happened to it. I know that, when I open my mouth to show how it is that I can no longer speak, the queen's very next question will be "What happened?" and I cannot answer that one honestly without mentioning the sea witch or the potion that gave me legs. But I can see no reason to lie now, so I turn slowly back to the queen and force my clenched teeth apart, opening my mouth and exposing what little is left of my tongue to the humans around me.

A few of the nearest courtiers strain to see, but the queen blocks me from their prying eyes. She peers into my mouth, and, for an instant, her deliberately smooth face twists. If the emotion is revulsion or pity, I am not sure, but it reassures me to know that her blank calm is only for show, that, under the mask, she does not regard me with the same indifference that she has managed to maintain until now. "What happened?" she wonders, her voice quiet. Her calm requires a moment before it can return.

I close my mouth and consider the question. The humans will never believe the whole truth, but what can I say that is both believable and honest? _It was cut out, just before I got here,_ I explain. Every part of me, no longer just my hands and knees, is beginning to quiver somewhat hysterically.

"Cut out by whom?"

_Not important._ My fingers can barely move enough to form the words.

The queen again does not press me, despite the courtiers' shouts that she should. But she has one last question for me, the question that I suspect Katrina had confronted her with at the beginning of the meal. The other questions had simply been a preamble, born out of interest and asked to discover if I would answer truthfully. My sincerity determined and the interest fulfilled to some degree, only the truly important question remains, and the queen asks it in a cold, hard voice. "Grace," she says, "are you plotting against us?"

My next breath is ripped from my throat as though she had jammed the sharp heel of her shoe into my stomach. A brilliant stab of shock and betrayal, worse than anything I have ever felt before, tears through my chest. She thinks I am plotting against her, her court, her son.

"_Plotting_?" Edmund spits the word much too loudly, and it echoes through the room, the derisive tone impossible to mistake. "You're all _insane._"

"Then what does she want by staying here?" one courtier shouts above the sudden buzz of voices. "Why doesn't she go back to where she came from?" another asks. "Why won't she tells us where she's from or who she is?" a third demands.

My hands are frozen against my sides; no amount of effort can make them move. The courtiers take my inability to answer as confirmation of their suspicions and begin to shout, one over the other, until the windows in the hall rattle in the dull roar. Edmund puts one arm around my shoulders and kisses the top of my head. Even in the midst of such chaos, even while being unjustly accused of forming plans for murder, or usurping, or whatever the humans think I am plotting—even now, his touch sends little shivers of happiness down my spine.

Sheltered by his disbelief in the claim, I find that my hands can move. Slowly, to be sure, and with an inhibiting tremor, but they can move. _No,_ I fumble in a manner akin to stuttering. _No, I am not plotting anything. Not against you. Not against any of you._ I pull away from Edmund far enough that I can meet his eyes, and, for a moment, my signs are only for him. _I love you._ Then, again to the queen, _I love all of you. I am not plotting, not scheming. I have stayed here because I like it here, because this is my HOME!_ I throw every ounce of sincerity I possess into that last word, wanting everyone, the queen, Katrina, Edmund, even the courtiers, to understand. _This is my HOME, and you are my FAMILY!_

Sometimes, moments of duress can expose truths never before expressed.

I have never had a home before. My father's palace had always been just that: my father's palace. It might be my sisters' home, my grandmother's home, but it had never been mine. And somehow, over the months, this beautiful sunshiny golden castle has moved into the void my father's castle had left in me and become my home. I love it, and I love the humans in it. I love Katrina, despite her surly temper—or maybe because of it. I love the queen, kind and calm and caring. Even while interrogating me, she had never pressed for explanations I did not wish to give. And I love Edmund. I love Edmund with every ounce of everything I have in me. I would kill myself long before I would ever even _imagine_ plotting against him, long before I would ever even _dream_ of hurting him. I would do anything—give everything—be anyone—for Edmund and still consider myself well rewarded if he were only to talk to me sometimes and continue to kiss my forehead at night.

This castle is my _home_, and these humans are my _family_. I wonder if this realization shows on my face.

The courtiers' shouting drops to a buzzing that fades into an embarrassed humming, and I realize that I am shaking violently, uncontrollably, exhausted and sick to my stomach from the queen's inquiries, that my legs are threatening to give out and my feet are hurting horribly. Edmund puts both arms around me in a tight, protective embrace, and I cling to the front of his shirt, trying to regulate my gasping breaths. "I hope you're all happy now," he growls toward the semicircle of courtiers. They mumble unintelligibly and disperse. Most leave the dining hall entirely.

"I'm sorry, Grace." The queen speaks to me now, and her voice is soft and apologetic. "But that was going to happen someday. You've been a topic of such gossip for a long while."

I would like to tell her that it is all right, that I will not think badly of her for what had happened, but doing so would require letting go of Edmund, and I have not yet regained enough control to lose the support of his arms. Instead, I nod, to show that I have heard her and acknowledged her apology and explanation.

"Are you all right?" Edmund whispers in my ear, concern tightening his voice, one hand moving against my shoulder in a comforting circle.

I consider the question. Physically, no one hurt me. Save for the slowly-calming tremors that spasm through me, I am unharmed, and the epiphany about my home and family shines through even the fright of the last few minutes. For eighteen years, I had floated around, a strange, miserable little mermaid. But now I feel as though I have found a place to belong with someone who loves me. I nod against Edmund's shoulder.

It does not matter that the courtiers think me strange and gossip about who I am and where I come from; as long as Edmund talks to me sometimes and continues to kiss my forehead at night, I am home.


	17. Heritage

Katrina spends the following week being unusually kind to me. She is gentle when washing and brushing my hair and makes idle conversation with me during her dressing ritual. Not once during the week does she scold me, even when searching for me in the morning makes her late for her chores or when another visit from my sisters again leaves my nightgown drenched and dripping.

I mention her odd behavior to Edmund at the end of the week. "She's probably hoping you'll forgive her," he tells me, smiling slightly.

_Forgive her?_ I wonder, confused. _What for?_

"Well, she was the one to point out all your oddities to my mother last week."

The morning after the scene in the dining hall, after I had gained some control of myself but before I had finished feeling shaken by it, I had told the old servant, without a single kind word included, that she was never again to tell anyone what I did during the night. If she had a problem with me, I explained, she was to discuss it with me, not the queen or the court. But I had recovered from my antipathy toward her three days ago, when I finally found the courage to ask the queen about why that scene had happened.

"The court hasn't had a proper scandal in six years, when Lady Aster was found to be sleeping with Lord Thomas, who wasn't her husband at the time. They wanted something to jaw about," the queen had replied, as casually as if she was speaking about the day's food. "And they chose you because you're…" The word "strange" had hovered almost visibly on her lips for a moment before she swallowed it back. "…New to court. And…different than everyone else. Courtiers can be like that, Grace. Half of them were probably jealous because you're so pretty, because you have the kind of pale skin most ladies would kill someone to have."

I had glanced down at my palm. Among the courtiers, my silvery skin makes me feel self-conscious and out-of-place. I did not try to imagine how it could make any human, with skin that yellow brown-red that I have come to find so beautiful, jealous.

"They wanted a scandal," the queen had continued, "and you conveniently show up, as pretty and graceful and pale as you are, added to which you can't speak, and your actions and manners are…unusual, and you have almost no known past until you washed up onto our stairs." She had smiled fondly at me and patted my shoulder. "My dear, you are simply a scandal waiting to happen."

"And the servants like scandals even more than the courtiers," Edmund had added, guessing correctly that I was thinking about why Katrina—who I thought rather liked me, almost as much as I have always liked her—would condemn me as she did just because I am a little strange. "You really upset Katrina that morning, and she probably thought it the perfect opportunity to stir something up in the courtiers."

This information had surprised me. Scandals in my father's court had always been a thing to avoid. My thoughts had flashed back to the season when the little hand-mirror had caused the biggest scandal ever seen in the sea; the merman who had been stabbed had barely escaped with his life. It had seemed to me that scandals should be shirked, not encouraged. And yet servants and courtiers in the world of air enjoy them. Humans are unusual creatures.

By the end of the week, I have had all I can handle of Katrina's courteous behavior. _You are forgiven,_ I tell her when the old servant comes into my room to help me dress.

"Forgiven, Miss Grace?" she repeats sweetly, smiling.

_I am not angry with you anymore, and I am sorry that I was cruel to you before,_ I clarify. _I want things back to normal again._

The smile drops from her face. "You want me to scold you for soaking your nightgown the other night?" she wonders, incredulous and frowning. She looks more like herself now than she has in days.

I nod. _Yes. But never go again to the queen and court with my misbehavior._

"This is getting ridiculous, girl. Another nightgown, stained all the way through with seawater!" Katrina shrieks. Her dull brown eyes sparkle in a way that makes me think that, under her frown, she is actually laughing.

The next morning, she hunts me down and herds me into my room, muttering angrily to herself the whole way. She pulls too hard at the buttons on my dress, yanks a hairbrush through my hair, and scolds me when I make what she calls a "cheeky remark" about how pleasant she is being.

And I know that things have gone back to normal between us.

--

The weather turns murky and cold. Furious winds howl around the spires of the castle and bang against the windows. Sky and sea, both the same boiling texture, both a uniform color of slate-grey, merge together into a formless dark mass of livid weather. I have not seen the sun or moon in four days, and I fear I might be going slightly mad from missing them. Night comes more and more quickly with each passing day, until the servants are striking lights hours before dinnertime. The leaves of the once-glorious trees have all been blown down from their branches and lie, dead and brown, on the ground. The bare skeletons of branches they leave behind stick out like discarded things in every direction.

The leafless trees startle me. I imagine that these are the normal patterns of life in the world of air, since the humans do not seem concerned by the deaths of their trees; yet, to see them looking crooked and forlorn—especially considering that only days before they had been all the most amazing colors I had ever seen—is worrisome.

When I mention it, though, Edmund only chuckles. "You've never seen trees lose their leaves?" he wonders, his voice teasing but his expression confused.

I shake my head. Grandmother's kelp garden, the closest thing to a forest in the sea, did not flower in the cold water, but it was always green. Brown kelp is dead kelp. _But are the trees dead forever?_ I ask.

"The trees aren't dead," he assures me. "They just lose their leaves in the winter so they can survive the coming snow; in the spring, the leaves will grow back."

Leaves die to save the tree. This fact, normal as it seems to humans, strikes me as terribly sad. Is there no life at all that does not depend on the death of something else? Does something always have to die before another, more important, thing can live?

--

"Grace, if I were to ask you a very…personal question, would you answer it?" Edmund asks me one dreary afternoon. We are in the library, curled up on opposite ends of the short couch, he reading, I sketching inattentively as I listen. The fire to the right crackles, illuminating his face and glimmering orange in his black hair. At least once every day for weeks, it has been striking me, each time harder than the last, how beautiful he is.

I smile. _That depends on the question._

"Either way, though, you won't be angry at me?"

_Again, that depends on the question._ I smile wider to prove that I am teasing.

Whatever he wants to ask makes him nervous; he begins to ruffle the pages of his book—today, the old leather copy of Holy Bible—with anxious speed. "Well, I was wondering…" He pauses and looks away, then turns back to me and asks quickly, as though fearing that if he does not say it now, he never will, "How human are you?"

Only the soft flutter of pages falling against each other breaks up the silence that follows. My eyebrows draw together, and I shake my head. _I do not understand,_ I tell him. Though in actuality I do understand what he is asking, my heritage is not a topic that I feel comfortable discussing.

"I mean, how _much_ of you is human?"

_All of me,_ I reply. Agitation makes my fingers tremble slightly, and I hope Edmund does not notice.

He leans toward me, his expression tense and serious; he is ready to argue with me. "I don't believe that."

I stiffen defensively, prepared to argue back. _Why not?_

"Because you have silver blood."

I stare at him, my jaw slack in surprise. Of all the things that could make him think me not human, it is the color of my blood—which I am certain he has never seen—that convinces him that I am not? _And how do you know what color my blood is?_ I wonder, a bit scathingly.

His lips twitch, fighting back a smile. "Really, Grace, I'm not completely stupid. Only people with some kind of magical heritage could be as silvery as you are. If you had red blood like us non-magical people, you'd have a least _some_ pink in your skin."

I bite my lip and glance down at my incriminating skin, my impossible silvery hair. He is correct, of course; I had seen a sorcerer in Tahron once, and his skin had been almost the same shade of silver-grey mine is. Fiddling now with a strand of my hair, I scold myself for thinking that I could have ever hoped to pass as a reasonably normal human, here in a world of creatures whose blood is red.

Eventually, when it becomes clear that I am not planning to respond to his last comment, Edmund puts one finger under my chin and tilts my head back until I am again looking at him. I sigh quietly. He knows that wretched trick, too, and can employ it just as neatly as Harmony ever could.

"It doesn't matter, Grace," he whispers. "I love you for _who_ you are, not _what_ you are, and whatever you are won't change that. But I would like to know, so that I can have a little peace from all this curiosity. Tell me. Please."

I slide my chin off his finger and bow my head again. _You will not believe me._

"Try me. The truth can't be any crazier than the ideas I've already come up with." I glance up with one eyebrow raised, and Edmund grins. "Your mother was a fairy; your father is an elf. Your grandmother is part unicorn, part sorcerer, and part dragon. Your sisters are all mermaids." He shakes his head, consequently missing the way I flinch at the last one. "I've imagined all the possibilities, but I'm not sure which one is right."

_You cannot guess?_ I ask. I find myself suddenly wanting him to know, but still half-hope that I can escape actually forming the words by encouraging him to guess correctly.

"Well, I like one theory better than the others, but I'd rather you just tell me. Please?" Still I hesitate, unsure, and his tone switches again, from pleading to solemn. "You can trust me," he promises. "I won't tell anyone, ever. And it doesn't _matter_ what you are. I just want to know."

I, not trust him! That is the thought furthest from my mind. I am more afraid that he will not believe me, or—irrationally—most afraid that he will. I have seen over the months the way humans can respond to the unexpected or impossible, and not for all the worlds would I ever want Edmund to distance himself from me the way the courtiers have. With the courtiers, the level of distrust in their eyes is bearable, hardly noticeable even. They and their suspicious gossip rank in my mind somewhere below wondering what the cooks will make for breakfast. But Edmund is not a courtier, and what he thinks about me is the most important thing I have ever known. It would destroy me if he were ever to look at me with the same kind of wary revulsion that always seems so prevalent in the courtiers.

But I have lied to him before, claimed that I came from a human land to the northeast, and I do not want to lie again. He deserves better than that. So, swallowing hard and placing my faith on the promise that my heritage does not matter, I summon a bit of steadiness for my fingers. _My mother was a mermaid,_ I admit. I cannot make my hands explain that my father is, and my sisters and grandmother are, and I had been, the same. Biting my lip anxiously, I wait to see Edmund's reaction.

"Mermaid?" he repeats, whispering again. I nod. "Really? Mermaid…" His voice trails off, and he studies me with a new expression in his eyes, one of awe and shock, but not, I am relieved to notice, disbelief or fear. Then, a huge, unexpected grin crosses his face, and he leans back against the arm of the couch. "I knew it! You're half mermaid!" His voice is almost smug.

_Only by blood,_ I correct fiercely, not commenting on the fact that he is only half correct. I want him to think me part human; I want to be _all_ human.

Edmund bends toward me again and twists a strand of my loose hair around his finger. "I'll take it to my grave, I swear." He examines the silver sheen of the hair between his fingers, a secretive half-smile on his face, then abruptly changes the topic of conversation. "What are you drawing?" he asks, looking down.

I sigh quietly, relief crashing through me. Telling the truth could have turned into a very bad thing, but it did not. My heritage is out now; I find the truth—or rather, half of the truth—an unexpected pleasure. At least I will never have to lie to him about that part of me.

Drawn by the direction of Edmund's gaze, I glance at the paper and pencil on my lap, having forgotten they were there. A half-formed sketch crosses the paper, the beginnings of a man, his face contorted with rage, a whip raised threateningly over his head, scattering merchants off the edges of the page. Birds fly from beneath the man's feet, between overturned tables, and around pillars taller than the paper can show. Edmund laughs softly. "Jesus clears the temple?" he wonders.

I smile. _That is what you were reading,_ I remind him.

He grins at me. "You should finish it."

_I will, if you keep reading, _I bargain.

Edmund obligingly reopens the book.


	18. The Festival, Part 1

The holiday called the Festival is quickly approaching the world of air. For a full week surrounding the shortest day of the year—a day Edmund calls the winter solstice—every shop, every business, every school, is completely shut down. No one, not even servants, works. The entire week is devoted to the humans' favorite recreations.

"The Festival is nothing but an excuse for all the townsfolk to get drunk off cheap ale," Katrina informs me, pulling too hard against the buttons on my dress. Ale, she adds when I ask her what she is talking about, is a drink that slows the mind and blurs the senses. She tugs at my buttons again and pauses before adding, "Though it will be nice to have some time without having to worry about where I'll find you every morning. Do you think you can keep yourself out of trouble without me?"

I smile to myself, thinking momentarily that it might be pleasant to be away from Katrina for a while. _I will be heartbroken,_ I tell her when she turns me around to look me over. _How could I ever survive a whole week without you?_

Katrina scowls. "Don't you get cheeky on me, girl," she snaps, with one hand spinning me back toward the door and driving me from the room. "Now go to breakfast before I can get really annoyed with you."

The days are frosty now, still overcast but very still. A sharp cold has settled over the air; it decorates the windows of the dining hall with fantastic patterns of ice each and every morning. The humans' breaths come out of their mouths like puffs of smoke from a chimney, and servants struggle to keep fires going in the rooms and library and other frequented places inside the castle. How things will function during the Festival without servants, I am not certain, but Edmund tells me things run just as smoothly without the servants as with them. "Most people don't stay in the castle anyway," he says. "Most of us spend the week in town."

I come to understand that saying _everything_ is closed during the Festival is not strictly true. Taverns stay open, most notably, and, to the tavern owners' delight, by the second day of festivities, townsfolk are in such boisterous and drunken moods that they often pay double for everything. Inns also stay open to house the out-of-towners who travel from all ends of the country to celebrate the holiday in Tahron.

"Old people like Katrina think it's just a week of townspeople drinking themselves stupid, because that's what the Festival was in their day. But, now, it's so much more than that. There are shows where magicians turn scarves into birds and back again, and people play music all day and sell things out of boxes for half the price than on a normal market day. And…" Edmund grins impishly. "…It's all just a little more fun with a swallow of ale sometimes. But that stays between us."

_Troublemaker,_ I scold, trying to match Katrina's frown and failing entirely for the excited smile that breaks across my face.

Edmund laughs, grabs my hands, and spins me around once. "You'll love it, Grace," he promises.

The afternoon before the beginning of the Festival, Katrina packs several simple dresses, a set of undergarments, and some woolen stockings into a bag for me. "And you are to wear the stockings," she instructs. "I will set someone to spying on you if I must, and, should you be out in that cold weather without stockings, I will not be responsible for taking care of the fever you will get. Do I make myself clear enough for you, Miss Grace? You are to wear the stockings."

I shoulder the pack Katrina made, toss on a warm cloak of the same slate-grey color as the sky, and, promising to wear the cloak and stockings every time I set foot outside, hurry down the twisting corridor, chased along by Katrina's orders to have fun and to mind the drunken townsmen.

I meet the queen and Edmund in the courtyard at the back of the castle. Edmund beams at me, absolutely glowing from excitement. He, too, is dressed in a thick grey cloak and carries a bag slung over one shoulder. I slide my hand into his, twining our fingers, and smile. His mood would outshine the sun today, if the sun were to decide to shine, and his excitement is catching.

The queen glances at me. "Well, Grace, are you ready to see your first Festival?" she asks through her smile. I nod, eager. "Then this way!" She sweeps down the courtyard toward the road, follow by six courtiers. She is a magnificent woman, I decide. The most magnificent woman I have ever known, in either life.

Edmund tugs at my hand, breaking through my thoughts. "C'mon, Grace," he encourages me, hurrying after his mother.

Tahron has exploded. That is the first thought I have in seeing the town prepared for the Festival: that it has exploded like a firework. Garlands of every color are strung across every inch of available space, woven through the bare branches of the trees, nailed between the planks of people's houses, strewn across the cobblestones of the streets. Thousands of humans pack together as tightly as a brick wall, and Edmund clutches my hand. I keep as close to him as possible, terrified of losing him in this crowd. Though the Festival does not officially begin until dusk, a few tavern owners bray that their taverns are opening early. "Free ale to anyone who wants some!" they shout above the crowd, pleased when the townsfolk take them up on their offers.

Edmund appears to know where he is going, for which I am glad; I had lost sight of the queen as soon as we reached the crowd. He leads me down the main street, where we have to pick our way slowly through the wall of humans—thankfully, we are never separated—then onto a less crowded street to the left and into a warm, dark house. The sign above the door declares it as the Fat Hen Inn. "We've stayed here every Festival since I was too young to even remember," Edmund tells me in an undertone. "The owner's name is Stuart. He has a wife named Mary and two daughters, Anna and Theresa."

"Why, Mary, look at what the Festival has dragged to our door!" The booming male voice throbs against the corners of the square wooden room. It is quickly followed by the appearance of a very short, very round human with a bright red face and tiny black eyes. A huge grin presses into his pulpy cheeks. "Your mother's upstairs already. It's good to see you again." He holds out his right hand, and Edmund shakes it. "Mary!" the fat human shouts behind him. Then, when he turns around, he notices me for the first time, and his beady eyes sparkle. "Well, and who are you?" he asks.

Edmund answers before either the fat human or I have the chance to be embarrassed for my lack of reply. "Stuart, this is Grace. Grace, the owner of the Fat Hen Inn, Stuart Wellington and his wife, Mary."

From seemingly nowhere, Mary enters the room. She is as short and fat as her husband, with a broad smile that buries her eyes beneath folds of skin. Her hair is brown and tightly curled, whether by nature or manipulation I cannot tell. I smile hesitantly at both of them and duck my head, overwhelmed by the force of their friendliness.

"Come in, come in, both of you. My husband has precious few manners, keeping you in this cold little basement." Mary steps back and gestures Edmund and me away from the door. "Let's get some stew in your bellies and a place for your things before the party starts!"

"You won't find anything better than her stew anywhere in Honnaleigh," Edmund whispers to me as we follow Mary across the small room and up a steep, narrow flight of rickety steps. By the way Mary's ears tinge pink, I suspect she heard his compliment.

A second door at the top of the steps spits us into a long hall riddled with rough wooden doors, each one with a small number carved into the upper half. "Rooms 3 and 5 are ready," Mary says, gesturing toward two doors near where we stand. "Come to the kitchen when you're ready for some food." She turns down the long hallway and disappears behind a door at the end.

Edmund and I start toward the doors. "Keep your cloak with you; we'll be going straight out again after some supper, and you don't want Katrina to find out you've broken your promise." Edmund grins.

_She did not tell you to spy on me, did she?_ I demand.

"Not spy," he corrects. "Just watch, to make sure you wear your stockings."

_Cheeky old servant,_ I grouse, unable to hide my smile. _I will have to have words with her next week._

Edmund laughs.

Room 3 is a simple, square room with a single shuttered window on the far wall and only two real furnishings. The first, a straw mattress, is raised off the floor by four thick legs and several wide wooden slats and blanketed by a heavy quilt that must have once been a colorful patchwork pattern. The second is a deep wooden box, unadorned except for the carving of a large chicken on the lid—property of the Fat Hen Inn, I think with a grin. I sit on the bed, wiggling my toes in the momentary relief of pain. I unbutton my cloak and take it off my shoulders but keep it in my hand, aware that Katrina has employed Edmund as her spy.

Too excited to remain still for long, I am soon off the bed and back out in the hallway, where Edmund is waiting to show me the kitchen. We go the way Mary had, down the hallway and through the door at the end.

The kitchen is brilliant with noise. Two long tables packed with people, some of whom are from the castle, stretch across the right half of the room. A giant fire, larger than any I have ever seen, roars on the left. Mary, Stuart, and two girls—a short, yellow-haired girl and a noticeably older girl with light brown curls; I can only assume they are Theresa and Anna—bustle back and forth between a pot resting over the fire and the long tables.

Edmund takes my hand and leads me down the first of the two tables toward his mother. "Sit," the queen instructs, gesturing to a few empty chairs next to her. "Sit, and have some stew."

Confused but trying not to show it, I sit in one of the chairs. I have never sat at a table while eating; in the castle, meals are eaten standing, or while sitting in the chairs that run most of the way around the dining hall, as the food itself claims all the table space. Almost immediately, the younger yellow-haired girl sets a steaming bowl of stew on the tabletop in front of me. I inhale the steam. Hot, spicy, and thick, full of large chunks of meat and potatoes and carrots—without even tasting it, I can understand how Edmund would think it the best food in the country. And the taste exceeds expectation. I eat slowly, savoring each bite. To my left, the curly-haired girl turns a coy smile on Edmund, but he does not see her or is ignoring her.

Supper finished, the Fat Hen's guests grab their cloaks and hats and hurry down the steps and into the night. Edmund stops me one step from the threshold. He grins broadly and asks, "Are you wearing your stockings?"

I sigh and roll my eyes, the ferocity of my glare much diminished by the involuntary smile that flickers across my lips. _I am wearing my stockings,_ I reply, lifting my skirt and holding out my foot to prove it. _Spy._ I struggle against my smile, with no appreciable success. _Servant's boy._

Edmund only laughs and prevents me from insulting him further by grabbing my hands and pulling me out the door.

The main street of town is even more populated now than it had been. Lanterns on poles placed at regular intervals along the street illuminate the humans and throw eerie shadows onto the cobblestones. A few humans play unrehearsed music on fiddles and drums, undeterred by the cold wind that sweeps down on their exposed fingers. Everyone is waiting, expectant, their eyes turned toward the murky black sky.

A flaming red firework ruptures the night, followed in quick succession by a yellow and then a blue one. I laugh. I had been thinking that this must have been the kind of scene Harmony saw the night of her eighteenth Hatching Day, but the fireworks and music remind me more of my first journey to this world than Harmony's. Remembering that night and marveling over how my life has changed since then, I rest my head against Edmund's shoulder. He drops my hand to put his arm around me. An unexpected thrill of contentment shivers down my spine. "Are you cold?" he whispers. Even speaking directly into my ear as he is, the ferocious explosions of the fireworks and approving noises of the audience render his voice almost completely inaudible.

I shake my head. I cannot imagine how anyone, human or mermaid, could ever be cold under his arm. _No, just suddenly and profoundly happy,_ I explain.

Edmund kisses the top of my head and smiles into my hair.

Part of the way through the firework show, a shriek unrelated to the dazzling golden sparks that rain down from the firework rises from the humans. A flurry of tiny white clumps floats down onto the crowd. "Snow! Snow! It's snowing!" the humans shout, cheering and laughing and twirling around. I hold out my hand and catch a few of the falling snow-clumps. They touch my palms so lightly that I cannot even feel them. Is _this_ the coming snow that the townspeople only days before were so worried about? The tiny snow-clumps certainly look harmless. They are not even wet like rain and are so light and small that even one tendril of breeze, too faint to even rustle clothing, catches them and spins them wildly off their course. A young male near me throws back his head and sticks out his tongue, catching the snow on its tip. I watch him, astonished when the snow vanishes—_melts_?—from his tongue.

It is long past midnight when the guests of the Fat Hen Inn stumble, laughing and singing, snow clinging to their hair and cloaks, up the stairs and into their rooms, shouting goodnight to each other and hurrying out of the cold hall to the beds. Edmund pauses in front of my door. "You've got snow in your hair," he tells me. His hand comes up, and his fingers pass once through the hair near my face. He smiles gently and kisses my forehead. His lips are colder than usual, probably because of the weather, but still warm against my skin. Though this touch is expected and perfectly routine, something—the snow, the fireworks, the festive mood—makes it feel different, more intense, tonight. My eyes close, and I have a difficult time remembering how to breathe. "Goodnight, my little mermaid," he mutters, very quietly.

Ever since he learned that I am—he thinks—half mermaid, Edmund has taken to occasionally calling me that: his mermaid. He always says the word "mermaid" with a peculiar tone, somewhere between teasing and awed, as if a part of him believes it but another larger and more logical part does not. It is never more audible than a whisper.

"The party really begins tomorrow," he tells me before entering his own room.

I smile after him, wondering what the real party could be if the fireworks and snow were not it. After a moment, when I am certain my legs will support me, I go to my own room and straight to the window. Snowflakes are still whirring through the air. The faint strain of a gentle fiddle song waifs into the room. Otherwise, all is still, peaceful. I press my forehead to the rough wooden window frame and close my eyes.


	19. The Festival, Part 2

Even if sleep were not a thing forever in my past, I would be unable to sleep tonight. Excitement hammers through my veins so hard that even sitting still is impossible. Though eventually the street outside my window seems to rest—lanterns are extinguished, the humans dispersed—some strains of fiddle or singing continue to echo through the snow-filled air. I wander around the little room, tracing the carving of the large chicken on the chest with my fingers and the irregular grain of the wooden walls with my eyes until I have both memorized.

The sun does not actually rise because of the solid cloud cover that presses onto the sky, but a lightness that I recognize as dawn brightens the town at the appropriate time. I gasp at the sight daylight has to offer. I've always thought the human world magical, but this is the most incredible sight I have ever seen.

Every single one of last night's fallen snowflakes sparkles on the street, on the houses, on every flat surface in the town. A clean, pure whiteness, shimmering like trillions of diamond shards, blankets everything with a covering as deep as my longest finger. I can only imagine how much more dazzling it would be in sunlight.

The humans stir soon after dawn; the straw mattresses and old wooden planks rustle and creak audibly. I dress hastily, pleased to discover that there is no servant at my back enforcing all the tedious little details, and that I _can_ dress hastily when free of Katrina's haranguing. Consequently, I am the first person out of the rooms.

I lean against the wall just to the right of my door, watching with mild amusement as a few bleary-eyed courtiers shamble their way down the hall without seeming to notice me. Without servants to dress them, the ladies' hairstyles are tangled and droopy. Lady Stephania, carrying her garish pink cloak in one hand and her shoes in the other, her long red-orange hair tied into a single large knot, almost trips when her bare foot brushes against a loose floorboard. I smile. Humans are so uncoordinated when they are sleepy.

Edmund exits his room soon after. Unlike the courtiers, who look as though they are marching to their deaths this morning, he is smiling, as happy and excited as a merchild with a new toy. "This is unusual," he observes after greeting me good morning. "You're not usually faster than I am in the morning."

I grin. _Without Katrina's fussing, I can be very quick,_ I tell him, almost boasting.

Breakfast is a hurried event; everyone wants to be out in the streets as quickly as possible, to be part of the excitement that trickles up from the town. When I stand to leave the kitchen, the queen hurries to me and drops a few coins—three silvers and five coppers, more human money than I have ever held in my life—into my hand. "That must last you all day," she warns, "so don't get pick-pocketed, and don't let anyone cheat you out of anything." I nod my acknowledgement and bury the coins deep in my pocket, not entirely sure what she is warning against when she says "pick-pocketed" but thinking that now is not the best time to ask. "Be sure to wear your cloak; it's cold out there. And watch where you're going. Tahron is crowded with drunkards this time of year; you must be careful how you act around them. Don't, under any circumstances, look them in the eye. That's all the encouragement they need from a pretty girl like you." I suppress my sigh. The queen is beginning to sound like Katrina.

Thankfully, Edmund has less compunction than I do about interrupting her. "It'll be all right, Mother," he interjects, stepping over from the table where he had been tying his shoes. "I'll keep an eye on her." I edge away from the queen and toward the freedom of the hallway.

"You had better be sure to. This is Grace's first Festival, and she doesn't know what kind of peril she could be in." I am almost to the door.

Edmund chuckles. "Cheating hagglers, pick-pockets, drunken townsmen, cutthroats…"

The queen blanches slightly but manages to keep her voice even. "Have fun. I'll be going out with Lady Stephania and Lord Harris in a few minutes."

Edmund follows me out the door, still laughing quietly to himself.

_She is worse than Katrina,_ I complain lightly as we scurry down the steps.

"It's tradition for her, and who can argue with tradition?" Edmund grins and opens the door to the street with a deep courtly bow. "After you, m'lady," he says, very grandly, gesturing me out the door in front of him.

It is difficult to know where to look first, so much is happening. The snow on the street has been tramped down to a surface almost as hard-packed as the cobblestones beneath it. The air is bitingly cold and incredibly motionless. Human ruckus flows around me: drumbeats, songs, shouts from tavern owners with ale and merchants with goods and magicians with tricks.

Edmund and I stop to watch one magician who performs for the rapt attention of children and adults alike. "What's your favorite flower?" he asks one girl with bright red ribbons in her hair.

"Daisies," she replies promptly, smiling proudly for being chosen from among the crowd.

"Daisies cannot live in winter snow," he reminds her. "But, because you've been a good girl for your parents,"—with his eyes, he singles out a young couple who watch the little ribbon-haired girl with smiles on their faces—"I should think that the daisies will make an exception." He pulls a yellow scarf from his pocket, covers his right hand with it, and mutters something in a queer language. I am certain that his hand had been empty when it went under the scarf, but, when his flourishing gesture whips the scarf off his hand, three daisies with petals as white as the snow and centers of sunlight-yellow are clasped in his fist. He offers them to the girl with all the pride of a courtier, and she accepts them eagerly, announcing to the magician's obvious satisfaction that the flowers are real.

I turn to Edmund in amazement. Magic? my lips wonder.

Edmund grins. Maybe, he replies silently.

The noise of fiddles and drums is the next thing to stop us as we wander down the main street of Tahron. A crowd at least four people deep encloses two fiddlers, a drummer, and a piper, all dressed in bright clothing. Their audience stomps to the beat of the drummer; a few scattered humans sing, but the song being played doesn't seem to be a well-known tune. It ends on a high, shivering note. The humans applaud. "Now, how about something a little closer to home?" one fiddler shouts to the rest of the musicians. Without so much as enough pause to think of a new song, all four strike up the music again, to bellowed cheers that morph into the words of what sounds like a popular folk song. Two couples twirl out of the crowd and into the circle. They whirl wildly, their dancing full of life and joy. I ball my hands into fists. I have never forgotten my first sighting of humans, never forgotten how much I had wanted to join them in their reckless, passionate dances.

As if reading my thoughts or understanding my expression, Edmund bumps my arm with his elbow. _Would you dance with me if I asked?_ he signs, abandoning any attempt to speak above the crowd.

_Yes, I would,_ I reply, nodding and grinning.

_Then, will you dance with me?_ He holds out one hand, and I accept it, excitement causing my heart to hammer at a faster tempo than the drummer's beat. I have danced human dances before. After all, Honnaleians rarely consider the evening finished if they have not taken a turn about the dance floor. But those dances had been practiced, controlled, ordered, nothing like this, this insane spinning that will always epitomize for me the kind of joy that only humans can know.

We make it to the interior of the circle quickly. Edmund rests one hand on my hip; I put my opposite hand on his shoulder; our other hands stay twined. "Relax," Edmund whispers into my ear, smiling at my sudden stiffness; he is so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath tickling my neck. "I won't run you into anything." I exhale deliberately and smile in return. And then, before I quite know what is happening, everything around me begins to spin.

No, I realize with the feeling of laughter in my throat, no, the world of air is not twirling. _I_ am.

The feeling is unlike anything I have ever before experienced. It loosens my stomach the way rolling in storm currents always had. It carries the same weightless feeling as standing on the edge of one of those impossibly high cliffs. It offers the same kind of unrestrained freedom as galloping as hard as a horse can run across a wide field. Everything around me blurs into streaks of colors: white ground and grey sky and rainbow humans. I throw my head back, trusting Edmund to keep me from flying into the colorful streaks that must be the crowd, and laugh.

The song ends eventually, and, though my body stops twirling, my head continues to spin. I wrap both arms around Edmund's neck and rest my head on his shoulder, finding the gesture genuinely necessary to hold myself upright. Laughter still bubbles from my mouth, broken by my need to gasp for breath. "Dizzy?" Edmund huffs breathlessly. I nod. "Good. That's what…the whole point is…these crazy dances…" He fades off as his own laughter renders speech impossible.

The week of the Festival continues in a similar manner. On the forth day, a haggled old witch shows me how she is able to animate pictures just like they do in Fairyland. "Watch close, girl," she orders, bending over a sketch I had drawn of breakfast in the Fat Hen Inn the night before. I had intended to give it to Mary as a thank-you for her attention but forgot about it tucked in my pocket until I had heard the witch ask me if I wanted it animated. I do as she instructs, watching her every motion with keen interest.

She sprinkles a thin layer of blue-black dust over the page and chants three times syllables that sound like "ching-ah-chook." Then she wipes away the powder and straightens, a delighted smile on her withered face. "You are a talented little creature," she compliments me. "Most of the pictures I do at the Festival do not respond so nicely, because they are so poorly drawn. Magic can only do so much." She winks. "Guaranteed to last one full lifetime. I'll let you see it for my promised copper," she adds, covering it with a bony hand when I lean forward for a look. I hand her a copper, and she pushes the paper toward me. "Thank you, and enjoy your day." She bites down on the coin and, satisfied with its authenticity, allows me to take my drawing a few steps beyond her tent.

I watch the sketch, amazed to see all the little figures of humans move. All of the guests eat, talking over each other, some even with food still partially chewed in their mouths. Mary and Stuart and their daughters trot to and from the fire, always with different dishes in their hands. I smile. Humans are amazing.

"Did it work?" Edmund wonders from behind me. I offer him the picture, and he takes it and looks at it, his eyes widening. "Incredible," he mutters after a moment before glancing at me and grinning. "Mary will love it."

I give it to her that night, after the other humans are in bed but before Mary has settled the kitchen fire for the night. I spend a while trying to write out a short note, but, bothered because my writing is sloppy and clumsy, I eventually give up and leave my room for the kitchen, where I can still hear the footsteps of the large female on the floor. "Miss Grace," she exclaims when she sees me, "shouldn't you be in bed?" I ignore the question and hold out picture. "For me?" Mary asks, stepping toward me.

I nod. _For you,_ I sign. She does not understand my signing, but she seems to guess my meaning.

"Well, now. Thank you." She accepts the papers and glances at the picture. At first, her expression is blankly polite, as if she has no intention of liking the drawing and is only looking at it because she knows I want her to. But, after a moment, the politeness gives way to astonishment. I press my lips together but cannot stop the smile that breaks across my face. "Oh," Mary mutters. "Thank you." She looks up at me. "I've never seen a picture move before. Thank you."

_You are welcome,_ I reply, ducking my head, pleased and embarrassed at the same time.

The next morning, after being certain that all courtiers are long lost to the Festival crowd, Edmund and I sneak into the nearest tavern. "This stays between us," he tells me quietly. "My mother would kill me if she knew."

_And I think Katrina would finish anything the queen left undone,_ I add.

Edmund nods. "Very true."

_Then they would both come after me._

He smiles. "Probably."

I smile back. _I will not tell anyone,_ I promise.

"All right. Good." He glances left and right before ducking into the tavern and beckoning me after him. "What's a Festival without a little ale?"

_Not much of one?_ I guess.

"Barely one at all," Edmund amends with a grin.

The tavern is already full of townsfolk representing various stages of drunkenness, even though it is not quite midday yet. Most are male, but a few females are scattered about the room. It is set up similarly to the Fat Hen's kitchen, with several long tables crowded with people, a fire glowing from the right, and a few people hurrying around the tables. The room itself is made of rough-planked logs and a thatch roof. The chimney is stone. There are no windows, and the air smells of smoke and unwashed clothes.

"What can I get you?" asks a harried female who looks no older than I. She is dressed in a simple brown dress with a neckline that plunges down past her neck to expose a voluminous chest. My face heats up with discomfort, and I look away, embarrassed but not exactly sure why.

"Two glasses of whatever you've got," Edmund replies. He seems unfazed by the amount of skin showing from above the girl's neckline.

"Right away. Have a seat, and I'll be out in a moment." The female scampers away.

Edmund and I sit at the end of the least crowded table, away from the one or two more-drunk townsmen who suddenly seem to think me more interesting than each other. Fortunately, Edmund's presence stops their interest before they have a chance to express it; still, their gazes remind me of the queen's warning on the first morning, about not meeting a drunk man's eyes. The memory inexplicably makes me laugh.

"What are you giggling at?" Edmund asks.

_Your mother told me never to make eye contact with a drunk man,_ I explain. _She said that is all the encouragement they need from a pretty girl like me._

Edmund grins. "It's probably true." The tavern girl returns with two glasses full of murky amber liquid and sets them firmly on the table without any acknowledgment of our thanks. She scurries wordlessly back to wherever she came from. Edmund lifts his glass. "Here's to your first Festival."

_And many more to follow after it,_ I add hopefully, also lifting my glass and clanking it against his in the manner of a human toast. I swallow a deep gulp of ale. It is bubbly and cold and violently bitter, but good in a way that is impossible to define, maybe because I know that it is something that none of my authorities would condone. I smile and take another long drink, wincing from the flavor.

"Slowly, Grace," Edmund warns. His eyes sparkle from repressed laughter. "Slowly, or you'll really get drunk, and then my mother will know whether or not anyone tells her." I set the glass down, embarrassed by my utter lack of knowledge about this strange human drink, and he chuckles quietly. "Who knew you were so rebellious."

I only grin and sip at my ale.

The last evening of the Festival comes before I realize that a whole week is gone. Tonight, for the first time, the queen abandons her courtier friends and finds Edmund and me engrossed in one of the many magician performers. "Have you ever seen a magician before, Grace?" she wonders, noticing the wide-eyed amazement with which I watch the magician turn his scarf into a bird and back again.

I shake my head. _I have seen a witch before, but she only made potions,_ I reply, keeping my expression light and firmly refusing to allow that thought to come to its conclusion.

The queen puts one arm across my shoulders. "Have you had a good time?" I nod. "Good. And none of the drunken townsmen have made any advances toward you?"

"Mother!" Edmund cuts in, protesting. "I've taken good care of her."

I duck my head and smile to myself. The queen's concern, though unnecessary, is strangely pleasant. It makes me feel cared for, loved, and, from the queen, the expressions are appreciated.

The queen pulls away and studies me a moment, her lips tight. "Has he, Grace?" I nod again, and her face relaxes. "And you really are all right?" I smile at her. Edmund rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically.

The three of us watch the closing fireworks together. Though strange, the queen's presence is enjoyable. The older female knows a great deal about many things, including the phenomena of fireworks, and she answers many of my questions about the history and mechanics of the exploding packages that light up the dark sky. "That's all I know, Grace," she tells me at length, shrugging helplessly in answer to my question.

"Do you want to watch fireworks or build them?" Edmund wonders, in a tone that might have, had it not been accompanied by his amused smile, touched on scathing. I smile in response but otherwise ignore him in favor of the yellow-and-red firework that crackles above my head.

As on the first night, it is past midnight by the time we make it back to the Fat Hen. The queen bids me a quick goodnight, adding that we will be going home after breakfast before entering her room and closing the door. Edmund lingers in the hallway longer than usual. "I've always hated the end of the Festival," he mutters to me. "Regular life is such a letdown by comparison." I nod in agreement. Already I can see his week-long high fading from his eyes. "That's probably what makes it such fun, though: the fact that every other week of the year is just regular life." The last three words come out in a tone of undisguised disappointment.

_You do not dislike regular life too much, do you?_ I ask.

Edmund half-smiles. "Not too much. But it's been so nice to have some time away from the castle and courtiers and servants that I'm not eager to go back."

To this statement I can completely relate. The week away from the courtiers' suspicious eyes, from Katrina's constant haranguing—even from my sisters and their half-angry sorrow—has been wonderful. And it's over. By this time tomorrow, I will be sitting on the marble steps of home, unable to defend myself against the anger and worry my absence has probably caused my sisters. I sigh wearily. I am not looking forward to it.

"Well, I suppose it's time for bed." Edmund touches his lips to my forehead. I close my eyes and sigh again, happily this time. He lingers here, too, drawing out this nightly gesture until I am afraid that my heart will pound its way right out of my chest. "I hope you always smell like seawater," Edmund whispers as he pulls back, the beginning of a smile on his face. "And I hope I never get used to it."


	20. Regrets

Regular life crashes down on me the moment my feet cross the threshold of the castle. "Welcome home," Katrina greets me, almost smiling. "Did you enjoy your week? You're a mess." The almost-smile fades into a full scowl.

_I did not have you around to make my dress look perfect,_ I remind her as she rakes in my rumpled dress and wind-blown hair.

Katrina waves away my explanation. "C'mon, girl. You need a bath." I sigh but follow her lead to the nearest bath.

The old servant tells me about her week only after a great deal of prodding. She had spent much of it with her brother and sister-in-law in town and had bought herself a new scarf. "But I haven't much liked the Festival since my husband died, nearing on eight years now." A faint ache softens her tone. Katrina misses her husband, I realize, though I cannot imagine the hard-faced, orange-haired servant being young and in love. After a short moment, she shakes her head, and her words change back to their usual matronly harshness. "So, how did you like it? You didn't get into trouble, what with all those townsmen drunk on stale beer, did you?"

_I watched a magician conjure daisies from nothing and a witch animate pictures with a powder, and I saw fireworks and musicians. And Edmund danced with me,_ I sign. My words are constantly interrupted as Katrina dresses me.

"You didn't miss me at all, did you," Katrina observes.

I shake my head. _Not even a little._

"Figures. I spend all this time every morning making you presentable, and you don't even bother to miss me when I'm not around." Her tone is morose, but I catch a glimmer of humor in her eyes.

Supper is quiet; the humans are tired from the week away from their beds and disappointed that the week away is over. But the courtiers are never too tired to whisper about me. Their rumors have been quiet, barely even audible, for some weeks, but the whispering is worse than the accusations ever were. I can defend myself against accusations. There is nothing to be done about whispering. I can see the uneasiness sweep through the dining hall when I enter it, the way the courtiers stiffen and back away, the way they nod to each other and huddle together, always glancing furtively at me from the corners of their eyes. Tonight, the courtiers' reactions feel stronger than usual, perhaps because I had just spent a week free of their suspicions and am unprepared for this jolt of regular life. I keep my head down through supper. Strawberries have long been out of season, and their replacements—hot meats and pastries—are delicious; however, tonight strawberries would have been appreciated.

Everyone goes to bed early. Katrina helps me into my nightgown and leaves, my day dress balled up in her arms; I lean against my pillows and consider staying in my room, or at least inside the castle, tonight, rather than going down to the water's edge. But my feet have been burning all week; if for no other reason, I need to leave the castle to take care of my feet. Bath water does little to ease their pain. The cold seawater works better. And, I admit to myself, I miss my sisters. I want to see them tonight—and something deep and innate tells me that they will come. So, once all is still in the castle, I slip from my room, down the twisting corridor, and out into the icy night.

The clouds, for the first time in weeks, have broken from the sky. Innumerable stars sweep across the endless blackness. There is no moon, but the snow glitters like a trillion tiny lanterns; the wind whistles softly over the water. I stand perfectly still for a few minutes, shivering more from beauty than cold, my slippered feet slowly going numb from the chill of the marble through the slippers' thin soles. I belong here, I remind myself with conviction. I belong to this castle, to this world.

My sisters come, as I had expected they would. At first, their eyes betray damaged expectation, but that switches to joy when I beckon them to me. "Aria," Harmony mutters, her voice gentle. "Where have you been these past days?"

I have to stop myself from explaining, knowing that I only confuse them when I try to sign. Instead, I point east, toward the town.

"We finally managed to convince Grandmother to come see you," Allegro tells me, "but you were not here. She thinks we were trying to fool her."

I bite my lip guiltily. Not once during the Festival did I think about my sisters or father or grandmother, except to realize how nice it was to be away from my sisters' sorrow. Away from the regret they make me feel. It had been pleasant to spend a week without once being forced to wonder if the consequences of my reckless decisions were too grave. And now, perhaps for being free of that worry for a week, it crashes down on me with more force than I am prepared to feel.

I wish I could see Grandmother again, just once, just so that she can know that I am not dead, that I am happy and content, that I am home. I wish I could dive through the sea one more time, my sisters' arms around me, supporting and loving. I wish I could go back for just one day to see my strawberry-red flowers and the stubborn striped-noses that can never be persuaded away from the castle food. I want to swim through the hallways of my father's palace, to feel the movement of water against my scales again, to float in the current, letting it carry me wherever it will, just one more time.

The memories of my life before are sharp, alive, and the desire even more so. I want to go back to the sea.

I jerk my feet out of the water and scramble, backwards, up a few steps. No, I _want_ to be human. The sea had never been home; this castle—_this_ castle, here, on land—is. I _belong_ here, in this world, in this castle, with these people.

"Aria, what is wrong?" Harmony asks.

_No,_ I sign violently. I want to shout at her, at all of them. _No, not Aria. Grace. Aria is dead, do you understand me? Dead and gone._ I stand and stumble back a few more steps. The mermaids watch me, their expressions ranging from confused to horrified, until I turn and run back to the castle.

I do not stop running until I am in my room and collapsed on my bed. My breath is shaky and hard. I pull my knees to my chest and bury my face into the soft pillows. Going back is impossible, I remind myself fiercely. I cannot survive under water anymore.

There are more important reasons than my lack of gills why I cannot return to my father's castle. I know there are. But still I have to scramble frantically to recall them. Katrina. Though she is irritating, grouchy, and imperious as no servant in my experience has ever been, I have grown fond of her. The queen. More and more, I find myself thinking of that magnificent woman as the mother I was never fortunate enough to have before.

Edmund.

I am embarrassed for struggling to remember what I should have never forgotten. Life as a mermaid had been intolerable because my heart lived here, in this world. Going back is impossible because life without Edmund would be worse than death.

But it is hard to chase the vision of my father's castle away from behind my eyes. And the expressions on my sisters' faces when I had run away from them… I press my face harder into the pillow. Aria's regrets have no power over me. Aria's life has no appeal. I am Grace now, and it is Grace's life that I am living and Grace's life that I want. So why does the memory of my father's castle—a place that had never been _home_—fill me with longing? Why can I not purge myself of the thoughts, the images, the memories, that provoke such longings?

I roll onto my back and stare at the line where the far wall meets the ceiling. Maybe I made the wrong decision, the little voice in the back my head suggests. I had never thought about this part of my choice to become human, never thought about the kind of regret with which the decision would be burdened. I never thought at all, except to realize that I could never be truly happy in the sea. But could I ever be truly happy on land?

No immediate answer comes to mind—I hate that a part of me says "no"—so the question hovers on the edge of my consciousness for hours. Can I ever be truly happy on land?

Katrina is bustling around my room earlier than usual. "Get up, girl," she orders, smacking the mattress with her palm. I moan my protest. My bed is only just now, after half the night, beginning to feel warm. "I've got enough chores to last me 'til next week and only this morning to do them. I've not got time for any of your lollygagging." She throws back my blankets. "Up, up!" I obey her reluctantly, submitting myself with poor grace to a hurried and painful abbreviation of her dressing ritual. Then, once she has finished yanking the hairbrush though my tangled hair, she rushes out the door without even a polite greeting.

I sit on my bed and smile grimly to myself. I should know by now that Katrina is not the human to turn to after a bad night, when I need to be reminded of why I want to be here. Eventually, with a sigh, I stand and leave my room. It is earlier than I thought; the corridor is completely deserted, and, in the dining hall, breakfast is not even laid out. I wave away a kitchen servant's offer of assistance and sink into a chair near the far window-wall of the hall. Deep grey clouds, the kind that seem to hold some form of air-water but never actually release their loads, press against the sky. I exhale loudly through my nose. The night had been so clear that I had hoped the sun might come up today. No, I think sourly, crossing my arms, today is going to be _another_ grey, cloudy day. On top of a bad night and Katrina's rude waking, the ugly weather is too much, and I curse myself for so impetuously leaving my father's castle. In the sea, at least there are no clouds.

The clamor of servants laying out breakfast shakes me from my stupor. Courtiers are beginning to fill the hall; most glare at me with the suspicion I have grown used to from them. Though customary, it only darkens my mood all the more. The humans don't want me around. I stand, my head bowed, and hurry from the room before they can begin to gossip within my earshot.

"Where are you going in such a hurry?" The sound of Edmund's lightly curious voice in the corridor halts my retreat from the hall. "Breakfast is back that way." I nod, my head still down, my eyes on the floor in front of me. Edmund puts one finger under my chin and tilts my head back until I am looking at him. I try to rearrange my expression into a smile, but I am not quick enough. "What's wrong?" he asks, his voice soft. I shake my head and shrug casually. "Don't lie to me, Grace. What's wrong?"

I drop my head again and bite my lip, my mind full of all the reasons I can think of to be miserable this morning: the courtiers gossiping about me and my strangeness even now, Katrina's surly mood, the clouds, the worst night of regret I have ever had. I had wanted to go back. I had wanted to leave. I can feel Edmund's eyes still on me, waiting for me to answer his question, and all I can think about is how I had wanted to go back. I glance up, my entire face hot from anger_—_at the courtiers and Katrina and the clouds, but mostly at myself. Then, with speed and force that brings my words to the level of shouting, I reply, _I HATE regular life._

"No, you don't," he reminds me gently.

_Yes, I do,_ I counter, more argumentatively than truthfully. _I hate the clouds and the way the courtiers look at me and how Katrina treats me. _ I pause, my list of admissible reasons running out. I inhale sharply; the faint salty stench of my hair, my impossible silvery mermaid hair with its impossible saltwater mermaid smell, tickles my nose. I continue,_ And I hate smelling like seaweed all the time._

A smile creeps across Edmund's face. "What would you rather smell like?"

_I do not care. Just not seaweed._ I am startled by how quickly my anger morphs into shame, and I fiddle uncomfortably with a strand of hair.

"Winter is almost always cloudy here," Edmund says, still softly. "One year, the sun didn't come out for a solid month."

I groan. _So it will be this dreary until the snow melts?_ I wonder.

"Maybe. But there are lots of fun things to do with snow. You've…never done any of them, have you?"

I shake my head. _Where I am from, it never snows._

"Well, it snows all winter here in Honnaleigh, and the only way to keep from going mad is to know how to enjoy it." An excited smile lights up Edmund's face. "I'll teach you after breakfast, if you like, how to enjoy winter even through the clouds. No courtiers allowed."

A smile of my own, reacting as much to his expression as to his words, stretches across my face. It feels good to really smile again. _Really? No courtiers?_ I ask.

"No courtiers," Edmund promises. "If we have to leave the castle grounds to get away from them, then we will."


	21. Sleep

True to his promise, Edmund takes me out of the castle directly after breakfast, and we tramp through the snow until every servant and courtier is well out of my sharp hearing. We roll giant balls of snow into several strange beings with pebbles for eyes and sticks for arms. My idle jest that a particularly lumpy and skewed snow-being looks a lot like Edmund earns for itself a small snowball hurled against my shoulder. "Remember," Edmund warns, grinning, "never insult someone who has good aim."

And suddenly, I find myself learning the art of war.

We spend almost the entire day throwing snow at each other, until we are both completely numb from cold. At dusk, we stumble, tired and hungry, back into the castle in time for supper. "So you see, Grace, winter can be fun," Edmund concludes as he shakes his cloak free of snow and water. "Now, I don't know about you, but I am ravenous, and it smells like there's hot food in the dining hall."

I nod my agreement on all three points and follow him to the dining hall. Perhaps it is only because of my heightened mood, but the scenery seems cheerier than it had at breakfast. It is almost completely dark outside the windows, and very still. The snow clinging to the ground and steps glimmers faintly, like millions of tiny earth-bound stars. The smooth surface of the sea reflects the warm golden light that pours out of the windows from the candles and fireplace. I sigh quietly. The magic is back.

Instead of joining the after-dinner dancing, the queen, Edmund, and I go to the library. "Where were you today?" the queen asks as she settles herself into a chair by the fireplace. Edmund and I sit on opposite ends of the couch; I curl my legs under me, sighing as the pain that has been burning through my feet all day eases.

"Out," Edmund replies. "I was teaching Grace how to enjoy winter."

I grin. _He mocked my snow-people and attacked me with snowballs when I tried to retaliate,_ I correct, pleased when my amendment draws soft laughter from both Edmund and his mother.

"There were a few snowballs involved," he agrees.

The room falls silent, save for the popping and crackling of the fire. The queen yawns. Edmund stands and picks through the books on the nearest shelf, and I sit up a little straighter, understanding his intentions and excited by the prospect. _Are you going to read?_ I ask when he sits down with a book in his hand.

"If you like," he answers. Both the queen and I nod eagerly, so he ruffles past the first opening pages and begins to read.

I lose the meaning of his words immediately, and I don't care. History, adventure, fantasy—what does the content of the book actually matter? Edmund's voice, softer than usual, with a faint musical rhythm that it gains only when reading, floats around the room, in counterpoint with the occasional sharp crackle from the fireplace. The library is a warm, drowsy, contented place. I slide closer to Edmund, at first with the intention of concentrating on the story he is reading, but, as the quiet warmth works through me, my entire body shivers with exhaustion, and I close my eyes and rest my head against his shoulder. Every muscle and bone is tired from the day of cold and snow. I walked and ran more than my hurting feet like, and I suspect they will make me pay tonight for my disregard. For now, though, I am barely even aware of the pain; for now, I am just tired and happy and warm, so I relax and just enjoy the peace of the moment.

Some time later, I hear the queen stand and suggest that it is time for bed, but her words never break the flow of Edmund's, so I do not pay much attention to her.

Then, after she is gone, everything—even Edmund—slowly begins to fade away, into a soft, comfortable darkness that releases me from every ache and pain…

My eyes flutter open, and, for a long moment, I think I must be in my bed. My mind moves sluggishly, noting only vaguely that I am looking at a burned-out fireplace and a shelf of books rather than a window and a tapestry of a hunt, that my head is resting on an outstretched arm too warm to be mine rather than a fluffy white pillow. I am not in my room, and I struggle for a moment, trying to remember where I had been the last time I had a conscious thought.

The library. Edmund had been reading, and I had closed my eyes and leaned my head against his shoulder…

I look at my surrounding a little more closely, trying to focus through the fuzziness in my head. I am still in the library, lying on the couch. The fire that had been flickering in the fireplace has burnt down to a few faintly-glowing embers, and the lack of light cast strange shadows on the floor and bookshelves. The only light in the room comes through the window, from the pink streaks of dawn now arching across the sky.

Dawn? Merciful heaven, what happened to me?

A noise, the same noise that opened my eyes, sounds very close to my head. I glance behind me, my entire body heating up with shock when I realize that I am not alone on the couch. Edmund is lying next to me, his head on the arm of the couch, one arm beneath my head and the other propped up against my shoulder. He yawns again and lifts his right hand off me to rub his eyes. "Ugh," he moans. "Is it morning already?" He glances at me and grins groggily, his mind not fully comprehending who I am or where we are. "Hello."

I smile up at him, realizing as I watch him wake up what had happened and why I can't remember the fire burning out or the sky lightening toward dawn. I fell asleep. Another shock runs through my body realizing it—mermaids between the ages of ten and two hundred and eighty years cannot sleep—but it is the only rational explanation I can imagine. Is it possible that being human is catching? I smile again, my sluggish mind offering me the image of humanity being contagious.

Edmund squirms a little, trying to stretch in the limited space, and I sit up quickly, embarrassment replacing shock as I realize again that I had fallen asleep in his arms and guessing that such an event—even innocent and unintentional as it had been—is not considered appropriate behavior for humans, especially unmarried humans. Sleep has left a strange sensation in my limbs, a tightness in my muscles that is not exactly soreness but that nonetheless reminds me of the feeling. My ears and eyes and mind feel stopped up as though with wads of cotton. Edmund sits up as well and reaches his arms out in front of him, sighing with pleasure.

I am flooded by a sudden rush of contentment that dispels the embarrassment as quickly as the embarrassment had replaced the shock. I could do this, I decide. I could quite happily spend the rest of my mornings waking up by his side.

Edmund looks at me again, and I can see that, this time, he is conscious enough to actually see me and understand what had happened. I bite my lip and duck my head, embarrassed once more, bracing myself for his reaction, his disapproval.

But Edmund surprises me by smiling. "Good morning, Grace," he says casually, as though he had just been waiting for me in the corridor. Only a twitch of his eyebrows, so small that it would have been invisible had I not been paying attention, gives any indication that he is uncertain about this unusual circumstance. Then he stands, yawning again. "We should probably get out of here before anyone sees us," he suggested.

"That you should." The new voice startles me, and I turn to see Katrina standing two paces to my left, arms crossed and scowling deeply. I spring to my feet, embarrassed heat pulsing through me.

"G'morning, Katrina," Edmund greets her, smiling, trying for nonchalance though his expression has become visibly uncomfortable.

Katrina blows air out her nose. "You know, I expect this behavior from her in the morning, but not from you. What were you doing?" Her voice is extremely cross, even for her.

"It's nothing, Katrina," he assures her. "Just a little nap in the library, is all."

"Hmph. Be glad I came before any loose-tongued courtiers found you." She turns to me. "It's time you were dressed, girl," she says before stalking out of the library.

Edmund chuckles quietly, and the sound is almost nervous. "Uh-oh, I may have to marry you now, before scandal breaks out in court," he jokes, shaking his head as though attempting to rattle loose something lodged there. I only smile in reply. I understand that he is teasing and that I should not consider his words seriously, but the idea concerns me. I have already been a cause for more scandal than I ever thought I could tolerate, and I do not want to go there again. The courtiers' whisperings have only just begun to fade into the background again. I want them to stay there.

--

The days of mid-winter are brutally cold and depressingly short. Edmund tells me that the days actually have been lengthening since the Festival, but I find that difficult to believe. The cold, cloudy weather keeps everyone indoors, and the confinement is maddening. On the rare afternoons when the temperature moderates or the sun shines, Edmund and I take Button and Jenny out of the stables. Galloping through snow is unbelievably fun. I love the way the wind—so cold it can actually burn—bears down on me, the way the snow kicks up from the horses' hooves, the sun so bright that it's blinding in the perfect blue sky.

But those days are rare. Mostly, winter is heavy with clouds both day and night. It snows often enough to keep the ground looking clean in most places, and it stays cold enough to deter the humans from leaving the castle. I have spent most of my nights in a room with a fire, and I have seen my sisters only twice since the weather turned. They cross my mind occasionally, usually with a stab of regret. Andante is probably married by now; I remember her wedding had been scheduled for the beginning of winter. But I try not to think of them much, and I am mostly successful.

And so the winter passes happily enough, with the same kind of gentle rhythm I have come to expect from life on land. Eventually, the brutality of winter melts into the mildness of spring; green things begin to push up from under the remaining patches of snow, and the spikes of ice that have dangled off roofs and trees all winter start to drip away.

Then, in the sweet promise of warmth and sunlight, with birds beginning to return to their perches in the budding leaves and small land creatures beginning to chatter to each other about all they had missed over the winter, my contented life in the Honnaleian castle is shattered.

--

**Author's Note: This being the end of part two, I think it is a good place to pause for a moment to send an enormous thank you to my brilliant beta reader, FaylinnNorse, who has put in incredible amounts of time and effort to help me polish this story until it shines. Never, in all the time I have spent writing and re-writing and re-re-writing _From the Sea_, have I ever been so pleased with it, and I am sincerely grateful for all of Faylinn's help. Thanks a trillion, Faylinn!**

**Also, much thanks to my friend Melissa, who has been fantastic in helping me with the 2009 rewrite. She is the at once the quickest and most thorough reader I have ever known, and I'm enormously grateful for all her input and feedback.  
**


	22. Questions

Lady Stephania, the queen's courtier friend, is the first to ask the question. I cannot say that it surprises me that, of all the people in the world of air, she is the first to ask the question; she is a terrible gossip who always needs to know exactly what is happening to everyone at every moment of the day. Though she cannot be the only courtier wondering, she is the first to say it aloud, during dinner one early spring evening:

When—and who—will the prince marry?

It is strange, I think, the way Lady Stephania words the question. To me, it seems that _who_ Edmund marries should be vastly more important than _when_. But I have come to understand that human priorities are often skewed—at least in the courtiers, who fuss over little things like the number of curls in their hair while neglecting the more important issue of whether or not they are kind people. It is also strange to me that Lady Stephania whispers her question into the ear of another courtier, one who would have just as little information about her question as she has. And, because no courtier has a satisfactory answer to the question, it circulates with all the speed of gossip until, in only one day's time, speculation becomes the courtiers' favorite subject.

Edmund must notice the way the courtiers whisper about him, but he gives no sign of it, except to ignore them somewhat more deliberately than before. "I'll have to acknowledge them someday," he says one morning. "But I hope to put that day off as long as possible. I guess that makes me immature." He grins, a bit foolishly, as if to prove his point. "Much too immature to think about a wife and family and kingdom and all other such matters."

I smile in return, and I am not sure if the smile is agreeing or despairing. As curious as I am about the subject—and I am curious, probably more interested than the courtiers are about the topic of Edmund's marriage—I am not sure if I want to actually know the answers.

One or two courtiers dare to suggest that I might be the girl. "She is strange," I hear Lady Stephania tell Lord Harris the evening after she had first asked her question, "but it's not really a _terrible_ kind of strangeness. And everyone knows very well how fond he is of her."

"So, you think _Grace_ might be…?" Lord Harris protests, his voice indignant.

Lady Stephania shrugs nonchalantly. "It's a possibility, isn't it?"

A possibility. I wince, frightened by the thought. If I am only one of the possibilities, then there are others; Edmund had eighteen years to fall in love with someone else before he even knew I existed…

I shake my head to break up that dangerous wave of thought before it embeds itself into my mind, before the horror of that kind of doubt can sink into my heart. I have been having enough trouble suppressing my own doubts recently without adding courtiers' speculations to my fears. My mind skips on to another, less frightening, topic.

Occupying my nighttime hours is a project larger than anything I have ever attempted—with perhaps the exception of planting my flowerbed, back in my previous life. Until now, I have never used my artistic inclination for anything other than my own personal amusement, but, a few nights ago, I began to think that it might prove more useful than as just a way to amuse myself. About a month ago, Edmund had asked me, in that peculiar half-awed tone with which he always addresses the subject, how a person could possibly be half mermaid. "Aren't they more like fish than humans in that way?" he had wondered. The arrival of the queen had prevented me from answering, but the thought that I might be able to tell my story—although Edmund would probably think it my mother's story, and I would not correct that assumption—is enticing.

And so, several nights ago, I sat down on my bed with a few sheets of paper and a pencil and wrote out my story, from the day of Harmony's eighteenth Hatching Day through the night I wrote it. But I didn't like it that way, so I stripped it of most of its details and ended it in a more satisfactory way, with the young mermaid-turned-human marrying her prince. The original intention was then to give the paper with the story to Edmund; however, I happened to look at it first, at the mess that is my handwriting, at the unnecessary words scribbled out and the forgotten words squeezed in that hampered readability. If I am going to do this, I thought, I should do it well. I am not a skilled writer. My abilities lie on the side of illustrations. Therefore, though not abandoning written narration altogether, I have spent the last several nights drawingmy story. Edmund's birthday is in a little under three weeks, which should be more than enough time for me to finish.

It is hard to believe that it had been nearly a year since my first visit to the world of air. I try not to think about it, because a strange feeling of sadness inevitably follows the amazement at so much passed time. Grace is essentially a happy creature, but even her happiness cannot always overcome the whisperings of Aria's discontent. Some nights, I feel trapped between the two, between who I had been and who I could be. It always happens at night, when the humans are all asleep, when it feels as though I am the sole occupant of this entire world. Then Aria resurrects, mutters in my head of all I had left behind, of all I had given up: my comfort, my voice, my family, and for what? All for one…stupid…human.

And, because I cannot shut her off, I grit my teeth very hard and try to ignore her.

Eventually, the courtiers' gossiping reaches the queen's ears. She laughs her surprisingly golden laugh the first time she overhears Lady Stephania and Lord Harris speculating to themselves. Their favorite answers to the questions of when and who Edmund will marry, since neither of them linger long over me, are "before the end of the year" and "the Madirite princess." The queen chuckles at their answers. "No one has seen the Madirite princess in six years," she interrupts.

"Yes, but she is said to be the most beautiful girl to be found anywhere," Lady Stephania counters.

"And that matters a great deal," the queen says, one cocked eyebrow expressing her sarcasm.

"The most beautiful girl to be found anywhere," Edmund repeats quietly, having also overheard the exchange. "I'm not so sure I believe that. I've met some very beautiful girls before." He smiles at me, as if to include me in that statement, and I duck my head, as much embarrassed as I am flattered.

The queen initially ignores the talk as completely as Edmund does, not commenting on it except to mention once that she will have to speak to her son about it. Several days pass before she brings it up again.

The evening is warm. The sun had spent most of the day out from behind the scattered clouds, and the world of air had looked, for the first time since autumn, alive. Grass is pushing through the muddy ground; buds of flowers and unfurling leaves of trees are slowly replacing the snows of winter. Inside the castle, everyone is cheerful. The sunlight of the day has almost tangibly lightened the dull moods of cloud and rain. The customary after-dinner dancing struck up with enthusiasm this evening, and even the queen, who rarely has a partner with whom to dance, has taken several turns around the dance floor.

Edmund and I are watching the dancers and clapping out the beat of the music from the edge of the floor when the queen, sparkling with enjoyment but with seriousness in her step, comes to us. "You and Lord Harris make a fine couple," Edmund tells her, speaking louder than usual to be heard over the music.

I smile and swallow my laugh. Truthfully, I suspect that the long-widowed Lord Harris is utterly and profoundly in love with the queen, but I would never have the nerve to suggest such a thing.

The queen blushes. "Well, thank you," she stammers. I also suspect that the queen equally returns his ardor, but I don't think she will admit it of her own accord. Edmund chuckles and turns back to the dancing. The queen stands quietly for a moment—until the blush fades from her cheeks, I notice—then asks, "Edmund, might I have a word with you?"

"What about?" he replies. A sudden weary look in his eyes suggests that he already knows what it will be about and says that he does not want to talk about it.

The queen hesitates for a few seconds, then, taking his arm and half-dragging him away from the dance floor, draws him toward the furthest wall, out of hearing range for all the humans in the room.

I do not intend to listen to the conversation. Eavesdropping is rude, in both the human and mermaid worlds. However, my non-intentions do not change a few simple facts: my hearing is far more acute than a normal human's, my ears are always particularly aware of the sound of Edmund's voice, and my interest in the subject I know the queen will bring up far exceeds that of the courtiers' casual curiosity. Consequently, though I make no conscious effort to listen to their conversation, I still hear it.

"Edmund," the queen starts after another moment of hesitation, "the courtiers are talking."

"That's the one thing they do exceptionally well," Edmund interjects with a hint of bitterness.

"They are wondering when you intend on marrying." A pause follows her statement. "And, so do I." Another pause, and the queen hurries onward, her tone serious. "You have to start thinking about it. I'm growing old, and Honnaleigh will fall to you when I die. It would be better for everyone if you were to marry _before_ my funeral. I received a letter this morning from King Ferdinand inviting us to his court this summer—"

Edmund interrupts her with a loud and weary sigh. "You are _not_ still set on marrying me off to the Madirite princess, are you? Because we both know that won't work."

"Madirae would be a worthy ally, and such alliances are most painlessly made through marriage."

"Painless for everyone except the two people trapped into a marriage where neither person knows or loves the other. I'm not interested in pledging my soul to someone for the sake of politics." The detached way he says those words makes me think he has said them several times before.

"How do you know you couldn't love the Madirite princess? You've never met her."

"My point precisely." A smile colors Edmund's tone.

"King Ferdinand did indicate that his daughter's education is drawing to a close, and she will be going home this summer. You would have the opportunity to meet her."

"Truly, Mother, I'm not interested in being married at present, to the Madirite princess or anyone else."

"But it is time you started thinking about it. You're nearly twenty years old."

Edmund chuckles at the queen's overestimate. "I'll be nineteen in a week," he corrects.

"Even so. Now is as good a time as any to consider it. And you might as well consider the Madirite princess as much as anyone else. Unless, of course, there is someone closer to home…" The queen fades away suggestively. Edmund does not respond audibly, though some innate part of me suspects that he shakes his head. The queen's voice, business-like before, drops to a wildly curious mumble that is almost unintelligible. "What about Grace?" she whispers.

I suck an involuntarily sharp breath at the sound of my name, biting down on my bottom lip when the breath sounds like a gasp. Until this moment, I had only been overhearing the conversation. My hands had continued to clap to the music, my eyes had stayed focused on the dancing. Now, my hands freeze in midair, fingers twined from the last clap. I look away from the dancers to stare at the floor to the right of my feet, afraid to turn around in case the queen or Edmund is looking in my direction. I really listen now, my lip caught between my teeth, my hands clamped tightly together, waiting tensely for Edmund's answer.

Rather than dropping as the queen's had, Edmund's voice only tightens. "What about Grace?" he repeats, emphasizing the words differently to ask "Why are you bringing her up?" rather than "What do you think about her?" as the queen had meant.

"Really, Edmund, are you blind? She absolutely _adores_ you."

My teeth nearly break through my lip. Have my feelings been visible all this time to everyone _except_ him?

The tightness in Edmund's voice turns defensive. "The feeling is mutual."

"But you've honestly never thought about marrying her?"

"We are not having this conversation," Edmund growls. "Not about Grace."

I risk a quick glance backward. The queen appears interested but relaxed, her head cocked to one side, her arms hanging lightly, naturally, at her sides. Edmund looks angry; his eyebrows are pulled together, knotting up his forehead. His arms are crossed over his chest, and I can just see that, beneath his arms, his fingers are clenched into fists. He is glaring at the hem of his mother's skirt. My knees fingers tremble at his expression.

"You've never even though about it?" the queen wonders again.

"No. And I don't want to."

I draw another involuntary breath, this one really a gasp. My knees shake, uncertain about bearing my weight.

"I doubt she would say no if you offered."

Edmund's tone switches again, this time from defensive to downright scathing. "Grace cannot _say_ anything."

A knife through my breast and into my heart could not possibly hurt as much as those words, in that tone, do. All air in me rushes out at once, leaving me struggling for a moment to catch my next breath. I drop my head into my hands and squeeze my eyes shut, aware that all control of my expression has momentarily vanished. Certain that I have been noticed and angry because of it, I clench my teeth together and lift my head, then sweep from the room with all the dignity I can muster. My efforts are only slightly impeded by my weakened knees.

I struggle against the desire to sulk and am successful until I am out of the castle walls, alone on the balcony above the pond. Here, and only here, do I sit, my knees up and my arms wrapped around my legs, and allow myself to feel the pain burning through my chest. Edmund does not want to marry me. He refuses to even consider it. I sigh and rest my cheek on my knees. Stupid, foolish girl, something inside me scolds. Why could you not see this coming? What could have possibly given you the hope that a human could ever love a _fish_?

I am not a fish, I protest, without conviction. With another, wearier sigh, I hide my face in the cloth of my skirt, wishing more fiercely than usual that I could turn that other part off.

The glass doors rattle as though opened with unnecessary force. I glance up. Edmund is already at the railing, staring down at the water. Though his glare is angry, the frown on his face appears to have more than just anger behind it: there is something pained, something sorrowful, about the turn of his mouth, the set of his jaw. I shrink into what shadows are available on the golden-lit structure. Only a small piece of my mind hopes he won't notice me, but that small piece is the part that controls my movements.

But, even cowering in the shadows as I am, I am nothing if not conspicuous sitting on this small balcony. My motion, tiny as it is, catches Edmund's attention and he greets me with surprise, having thought I was still in the dance hall. He then sits down next to me. Silence reigns. A few questions burn through me, needing to be asked, but I twine my fingers together and ignore them.

"What's wrong?" Edmund asks after a minute. I do not reply, but I do not have to; my very aversion to the question conveys more than a reply ever could. "Oh," he breathes, more as a sigh than a word. "You…weren't supposed to hear that."

_Yes, I guessed as much,_ I retort. But Edmund is looking down, at the toe of his shoe, and does not see my comment. At length, however, he turns back toward me, and, needing to pose the question but scared of the answer, I ask, _Do you not love me?_

Edmund blinks, surprised and confused. "I love you more than anyone in the country," he mutters, his voice earnest.

_But not enough to…_ I fumble over the words, not entirely sure if I want to use them. However, there is no other way to ask what I need to know. _…To marry me?_

Silence again rings between us. I fight to keep from looking repentant even as Edmund stiffens uncomfortably from my question. Our intentions have been unmatched all along, I realize. I have been hopelessly in love with this human for nearly a year, and all the while his feelings have been different. He sees me and loves me as his companion, his friend, not—the thought hurts, but I force it out—not as his wife.

"Well, the truth is, is that my heart is…is with another already," Edmund admits, whispering now.

I stare straight ahead. I had hoped we would never have to have this conversation, but it has arrived, and I have to know everything, now, while I am still aching from what he had said in the dance hall. It is going to hurt no matter when it happens, so it might as well be now while I am already in pain. _Who?_ I demand.

"It was before I met you, or things…would have been different," he hedges.

My control is slipping again; I can feel my face threatening to give away just how difficult this conversation is for me. _Who is she?_ I repeat, biting down hard on my lip. The dull pain of teeth pinching flesh distracts me from the harsher agony of learning that Edmund's heart is somewhere else, not here with me as I had hoped it might be.

Edmund takes a deep breath, and I can see from the corner of my eye that he has returned to staring at his shoe. "One night about a year ago," he starts, his voice hesitant but his words spilling almost too quickly to understand from his mouth, "the night of my last birthday, to be exact, we were all sailing home from Madirae. My mother's been trying to pawn me off on the Madirite princess for a long time, but, I don't know, I've never even seen her. She's been away at school for the past six years or so. Anyway, we were sailing home from Madirae, and a storm blew up and sunk the ship."

I lean back against the railing of the balcony. I can guess all too well where this story is headed.

"Fortune or Providence or something was with me that night, because I very nearly drowned; only God knows how I survived." And, I add to myself in the short pause, the mermaid that rescued you. "But, anyhow, I ended up washed onto a little island with nothing but a convent on it, and the nuns, they saved my life, one in particular. Her name is Isabella, actually. She's the youngest nun there, in that convent. I spent a week at that convent, a few days on the brink of death, and Isabella nursed me back to health." He pauses again, then, his tone almost pleading, adds, "Grace, I owe her my life."

_Which means your heart, too?_ The question, bitter as I never meant to be, slips out before I notice it and can stop it. _I_ had been the one who had pulled him from the sea. His life is owed to _me_.

Edmund inhales as if to speak, then exhales the air through his nose. "I'm sorry. I've been unfair to you, haven't I?" His voice sounds oddly choked and burns with the regret of a realized mistake.

_No,_ I disagree gently, distressed more by his regret than his story. _It is just as unfair that you have to love a girl destined for a life of celibacy._ I smile at him and touch his hand, wanting him to know that I do not hold him responsible for anything. After all, no one can choose who will receive his heart. I am proof enough of that fact. Humans, it seems, are in as little control of their love as mermaids.

Edmund looks at me now, straight in the face for the first time since he asked me for a dance earlier in the dance hall. "You know, I used to think I couldn't be happy without Isabella. But that's not true." He brushes a couple of loose hairs away from my eyes. "I've been happy since you've been here. I do love you, Grace. Don't ever forget that."

I smile, attempting to look genuine and surprised when the smile turns real. _Mermaids do not forget,_ I tell him, relieved to see that my joke has its intended effect when Edmund smiles back. _And I still have a chance at stealing your heart away from that girl in a convent on a deserted island, yes?_

Edmund almost laughs. "A better chance than anyone, I assure you. Especially the Madirite princess."

_Then I do not think I will give up trying,_ I decide.

Now he does chuckle. "Uh-oh. I'm in trouble."

I offer my best imitation of a flirtatious courtier's daughter, fluttering my eyelashes and smiling coyly behind a pretend feather fan. The tension in the air breaks entirely when Edmund laughs again. He puts one arm across my shoulders and kisses me softly on the temple. "You're incredible," he mumbles into my hair. The word, in the context of the whole confusing and agonizing night, catches my attention. Incredible. I am so used to the other words used to describe me: strange, foolish, impossible. Of all the people I have ever known, whether human or merfolk, only Edmund has ever called me incredible. Though it seems unlikely, incredible is a much nicer thing to be than strange, so I relax into his touch and allow myself a moment to feel incredible, to feel worthy enough to sit like this beside him, his touch making me believe that I am the most important person in his life.

It does not last long.

He loves someone more than he loves me. This fact hurts like a spear wound. I can still remember the three females who had found him on the beach the morning after his shipwreck, especially the gorgeous female named Isabella. It hurts to recall how impossibly—how _incredibly_—beautiful and confident she appeared to be.

But she belongs to the church, I remind myself. Edmund will never see her again, and, even if he did, he could never marry her. She will live a life of celibacy, devoted to studying and living out all the dullest parts of the Holy Bible, the parts that Edmund always skips over when he reads. But I am here with him, every day, loving him more as each day passes. There is nothing I would not do, nothing I would not give, for him.

Someday, then, I think, closing my eyes and resting my head against Edmund's shoulder. It had been a joke, a way to break the tension of the conversation by making Edmund laugh, but I had sincerely meant it when I told him I am not ready to give up.


	23. Birthday

For several days, everything feels stilted between Edmund and me. The new information each gained about the other—that I want to marry him, and that he is in love with someone else—hovers like an invisible barrier between us. I hate it. I hate the awkwardness that keeps Edmund from meeting my eyes and the discomfort that keeps me from feeling at ease around him. For the first time, I am unhappy with my human life. I can handle everything—the pain in my feet, the sorrow of my sisters, the whisperings of the courtiers—except Edmund's distance.

Outwardly, I suppose things seem all right. We certainly have not stopped speaking or spending our days together. But there is something uncomfortable in the silences that had been pleasant before, something stiff and forced in conversations that should come easily. I wonder, with growing dread, if this is the way it is going to be from now on, if the unmatched intentions we have held for so long are going to destroy everything now that they are out. Even admitting my mermaid heritage didn't have this kind of effect.

Edmund has spent a great deal of time frowning recently, so much that even the courtiers have noticed it. "The prince is worried about the trip to Madirae," they mutter amongst themselves. "He is wondering what the princess will be like. Perhaps we'll have a wedding this summer, wouldn't that be grand?"

I wonder how they can actually hope for the wedding they think is going to happen. The very thought of Edmund being married sends little shivers of dread through me.

Because I can think of no other way to relieve the awkwardness, I spend all night, every single night, working on Edmund's birthday present, determined to have it finished in time. The illustrations come quickly. I am careful to make the characters unrecognizable, knowing that I will be pretending this is my mother's story rather than mine, and, after some reflection on that point, I edit out the scenes surrounding the shipwreck. The narration is harder. It takes a long time for me to figure out what I want to say, how much detail I should give, and even longer for me to write it down. My messy penmanship is a curse. I struggle to make my words look as nice as my pictures, growing more and more frustrated as one page after another is ruined by my inability to neatly handle letters. As I glare at the crumpled wads of paper littering my bed, I consider asking someone else to write the words but quickly reject the idea. I am determined to make this _mine_, from start to finish.

I complete the little book with only one day to spare, and I am sitting on my bed and ruffling through the paper, feeling proud, when I realize that it is not really remarkable. So I wrote out a mostly-true story and drew a couple of pictures for it. So what? Humans do that all the time, and most probably don't have so much trouble with it. I sigh moodily. There must be some way I can make this more interesting, more worthy of the person who will receive it. My thoughts need only two seconds to come up with a solution. Mary Wellington had enjoyed the animated picture I had given her during the Festival, and I have a little bit of money…

I leave immediately after breakfast, smiling mysteriously when Edmund asks me where I am headed. _You cannot come,_ I add after a moment.

"Why not?" he wonders, suddenly curious.

_It is a surprise,_ I reply.

Edmund raises one eyebrow, more interested than before, and wishes me a pleasant time.

The old witch is in the same place she had been during the Festival, creaking about her ability to animate pictures like the fairies have in their homes. She eyes me speculatively when I approach her. "I remember you," she announces. "You're the girl who drew so nicely at the Festival." I nod, surprised, and she cackles at me. "Funny, the things we humans remember, eh, child?" The emphasis on her words seems to exclude me from the category of "we humans." I frown at her, confused, but she ignores my gaze and looks instead at the sheets of paper in my hands. "You've something for me to animate, then?" she asks.

I shake my head to turn off my churning thoughts and hand her my little book. She flips through it, her delight growing more obvious with each turn of a page. "Mermaids, huh? Alright, let's see what happens. You have money, of course, one copper per." I count out six coppers and lay them on the witch's little table, and the witch, satisfied, continues. She does the exact same thing for each picture as she had for my sketch for the Festival: covers each with a thin layer of blue-black powder, thrice chants syllables that sound like "ching-ah-chook," and blows the powder away. Altogether, it is business that lasts six minutes, or perhaps slightly less. She returns the book with a pleased, mostly-toothless grin. "There you are. Guaranteed to last one lifetime, though it might last longer than that on your pictures. Who knows? We'd all be dead by then anyhow." She chuckles at her joke.

I smile my acknowledgement and turn back to the little book to ruffle through the pages. Despite having just paid this human witch to make the pictures move, I am startled and thrilled to see that they do. The mermaids swim, the humans walk, even the waves crash against the shoreline. I beam at the witch. Thank you, my lips say.

"You're welcome. Now, move along. I've got more customers to attend to."

I leave the witch to her animating, the little book clutched to my breast. Won't Edmund be pleased, I think with an excited smile. He will be happy, and hopefully things will return to normal between us.

I loiter in town, enjoying the warm breeze and green leaves of the summering world. The sun, though sparse through the broken clouds, is deliciously bright and warm on my skin, and I almost laugh to think that, only a year ago, such sunlight was scalding against my face and arms. I wander aimlessly down a few streets until my stomach begins to mumble about the lack of food; then I turn my feet toward home.

Unreasonably excited as I am about this story with moving pictures, I cannot wait until breakfast. As it is, I almost forgot to hide it during dinner. Therefore, I am in the corridor, on the other side of Edmund's closed door, before sunrise—not fully dressed, as I had intentionally avoided Katrina, but, conscious of human rules of modesty, I did have the presence of mind to pull a robe on over my nightgown.

Edmund, bedraggled and half-awake, opens the door after a few knocks. My face heats up as I realize my mistake. Of course it is too early for humans to be awake. Even Katrina is probably still sleeping. "Where's the fire?" he wonders through a yawn.

_I am sorry,_ I apologize, embarrassed. _I did not mean to wake you._

Edmund half-smiles. "Well, it's too late now." He opens the door wider and invites me in. His room is furnished much like mine: a bed, a large upright chest, a few colorful tapestries, a window with a magnificent view of the still-dark eastern sky. It is not yet even dawn. My face flames again.

"So. What do you want?" Edmund asks, sitting on the edge of the bed.

_Nothing,_ I answer quickly. The little book under my arm seems suddenly unimportant. Only after I answer do I realize that "nothing" is a completely ridiculous reply, and my face, still warm from my previous embarrassment, heats up a third time.

"Grace, I'm already awake," he tells me with an amused, if somewhat groggy, smile. "Sit down, and stop feeling embarrassed." I obey the first and struggle with the second. After a moment, the heat recedes from my cheeks, and I smile, taking a normal temperature to mean that I have quit being so mortified by my thoughtlessness. "Better?" I nod. "Now, what is it that you want?"

Suddenly and inexplicably nervous, I chew on the inside of my bottom lip and look down at my knees. _Nothing, really,_ I insist. _I just…wanted to be the first person to wish you a wonderful birthday. And…_ I pull the story out from beneath my arm and lay it on the bed, pushing it toward Edmund without look up from my knees.

"What's this?" he asks, a smile in his voice.

_You asked me once how a person could actually be part mermaid,_ I remind him, one-handed, as I cannot make myself move my other hand from off the cover, even as he begins to reach for it. A hesitant, but very excited, smile works across my face. _I did not mean to wake you,_ I apologize again. _I was not thinking about the time._

"Mermaids don't sleep much," he guesses, with the usual half-believing tone. I shake my head. Edmund yawns. "Well, if you come with presents, maybe I'll forgive you. But that depends on the quality of the present." Grinning to prove that he is only teasing, he pulls the little book out from beneath my fingers and flips to the first page. I watch his reaction without moving my head. His grin widens into an enormous smile as he flips through the pages. "Thank you," he says after a moment. "This is amazing."

I smile and duck my head, my face heating up again, but this time with pleasure. _Am I forgiven?_ I wonder, not entirely joking.

Edmund laughs quietly. "Completely."

Sunlight begins to trickle through the east-facing window. Katrina will be looking for me now; I had better be somewhere else when she finds me, or I will give her cause to create _real_ scandal in the court. I stand, and Edmund looks up at me. "Honnaleians don't notice birthdays after adulthood, you know," he tells me.

_You are hardly an adult,_ I respond.

He smiles. "Very funny. I'll see you at breakfast."

I am able to slip back into my room and lie down on my bed before Katrina comes in to find me. "Come on, girl. It's time to get up," she instructs upon seeing me curled up against my pillows. Her scowl is less ill-tempered than usual this morning. I obey her quickly, not wanting to cast a shadow on her good mood. "You're being good this morning," the old servant comments part of the way through a particularly merciful dressing.

I smile at her. _So are you,_ I return.

Katrina grimaces. "I spoke too quickly." I only smile wider.

For the first time more than a week, the clouds break from the sky, leaving the sun free to shine. The world of air glitters with life: birds chattering from the leafy trees, squirrels scampering across the grassy castle ground. At breakfast, Edmund meets my eyes and smiles as though the long days of awkwardness never even happened, and everything is perfect again.

Most of the courtiers do not recognize the day for what it is, but a few of the more attentive courtiers offer Edmund their wishes for a happy birthday. The queen, of course, notices. "Happy birthday!" she exclaims the first moment she is free of the courtiers that hurry to her when she walks into the dining hall. She folds Edmund into a tight, motherly embrace.

"I thought that being an adult was supposed to spare me all this," Edmund says when his mother releases him, struggling to sound annoyed.

"You are not really an adult." The queen smiles.

"Oh, there's no need to feel clever for that one, Mother. Grace beat you to it by more than an hour." Edmund's returning smile is sheepish and obviously pleased.

That night, for the first time in a few weeks, I spend the night on the castle steps, bathing my feet in the icy water. Unlike this night one year ago, the sky is amazingly clear, free of even the thought of clouds. The air is warm, the breeze gentle. The water laps at the marble steps, rising and falling with a gentle rhythm. Spectral sounds and images, memories that are less distinct than usual, dance before my eyes: my father's palace, faintly luminescent in the dim water; colorful, stubborn striped-noses snacking off the banquet table; my sisters among their flowerbeds, glowing with pride when the merfolk from around the ocean comment on the flowers' beauty; Grandmother, eyes clouded with age, telling all she knows about humans. I sigh and kick at the water. The reflections of the moon and stars ripple across the surface.

My sisters do not come. I had not truly expected them to. After all, I have not been here in weeks, mostly to avoid them, and they have probably given up on any hope of seeing me. But a part of me had argued against reason that, tonight of all nights, my sisters would think to come. They do not, and, when the sun begins to peak over the summit of the eastern cliffs, I pull my feet from the sea and turn to the castle without looking back.

I will not return.

--

The letter from King Ferdinand that the queen had received the previous week was not ignored. In her reply, the queen indicated her and her son's desire to pay what she calls "a friendly visit" on the Madirite court. "It is wise to be on good terms with one's neighbors," she says to the courtiers. "And that is the reason we are going to Madirae: to stay on good terms with our neighbors."

No one, not even the dullest servant, is fooled by this ostensible reason for the trip. Every single person in the court—and probably most in Tahron and the rest of Honnaleigh—is keenly aware of the _real_ reason: the Madirite princess will be home this summer, for the first time in at least six years. Every single human I know, save Edmund himself, is horribly eager to see the Honnaleian prince marry the Madirite princess before the end of summer.

"There's no avoiding it, is there?" Edmund mumbles one day a week before the scheduled trip across the sea. We are sitting on the grass just beyond the castle walls and mostly allowing the afternoon to drift by as aimlessly as the fluffy clouds above our heads.

I don't have to ask to understand what he means, despite the fact that his comment breaks a long silence and does not even remotely refer to the most recent topic of conversation. My mind had been in precisely the same place, as it has been for days. _There is no law saying you have to marry her,_ I remind him.

"Yet," he adds, not quite smiling. He leans back on his elbows with a sigh and squints up at the sun. "Well, I suppose it can't hurt to go. Admittedly, I've been curious about the Madirite princess for some time." A wry grin crosses his face as he glances at me. "Can you believe that I've never even heard her name?"

I nod. No one seems to know the Madirite princess's name. Even the queen had frowned and admitted to being unsure when I asked her. The poor girl, I think, my feelings toward her touched with pity. Her reputation as being the most beautiful girl ever precedes her, but what good is that kind of reputation when the man everyone is expecting her to marry does not even know her name?

"She's probably coy and frivolous and vain," Edmund speculates, aloud but mostly to himself, "just like every other courtier's daughter in existence."

_And she probably smells like rosewater and sings like a nightingale._ I am careful to keep my expression light as I name the two qualities that I am most conspicuously lacking.

"Ugh." Edmund wrinkles his nose and grins. "I didn't even think about that. She'll talk."

_You say that like it is a bad thing._

"It is," he returns. I raise my eyebrows in question. "I've gotten so used to have the advantage in conversations." He draws out the word "advantage" with exaggerated pleasure, his most teasing grin flashing across his face.

_You do not—_ I begin to protest.

Edmund straightens from his half-reclined position and takes both my hands in his, effectively preventing me from continuing. An expression both amused and smug crosses his face. I attempt to scowl and fail entirely. "It's not so easy to interrupt someone who can talk," he explains, still grinning. I roll my eyes; Edmund chuckles, then sighs wearily. "You're coming, too, aren't you?" His thumbs, maybe without his notice, stroke gently along the tops of my knuckles.

I nod. I am as curious about the Madirite princess as any of the courtiers. Besides, I would not know what I would do without Edmund, even for the short time required for a "friendly visit" to Madirae. And I want to be there if the Madirite princess turns out to be everything she is said to be, if she and Edmund…

I shudder at the thought. The sea witch's words have been intruding on my thoughts a lot lately. "The morning after his marriage to another," Dressela had warned me, "you will disssolve into ssea foam." I have not yet given up my hopes of human happiness and an immortal soul, because I believed Edmund when he told me that I have a better chance than anyone, the Madirite princess included, at being the one, but the uncertainty makes me uneasy. What if the Madirite princess really is everything people say about her? What if she is as sweet and beautiful and intelligent as King Ferdinand insisted she is? If she is, would it really matter that Edmund is in love with someone else? If the princess really is all she's been built up to seem, I imagine that the pressure from the queen and the Madirite royal family and all the courtiers will probably cause Edmund to just submit and marry her.

And that would mean losing Edmund, in every way I could ever possibly lose him: first to another girl, then to an eternity of nothingness. I shiver again and close my fingers around his hands. Just thinking about it hurts like a knife wound. I would hate to actually experience it.


	24. Preparations

Preparations for the trip are arduous. The ship to take Edmund, the queen, two dozen courtiers, a handful of servants, and me across the sea is being glamorously fitted, as though it will soon serve as the location of a royal wedding. The castle seamstress has been sewing madly all week, trying to fill the orders everyone has given her: the courtiers expect to need wedding clothes for this trip. Even the half-dozen servants who are going fuss about having new caps and ribbons for their hair. These elaborate preparations make me nervous. Everyone iscertain that Edmund will come home with a wife, and their certainty has begun to erode mine. I am certain that Edmund has no desire to marry the Madirite princess—he has told me as much—but foreboding has started to knot up my stomach regardless. My chances of coming home from this trip are beginning to feel slim.

Crossing the sea to Madirae takes one day and one night with a favorable wind—longer without it. We need an extra day, Edmund tells me, to cross land. The Honnaleian port is only half-an-hour outside of Tahron, but the Madirite castle is several hours inland from the sea. So, assuming a brisk, steady wind in the correct direction, it will take two days and the night in between to reach the Madirite court.

The morning of departure finds me agitated and slightly nauseous. It is a pleasant, clear day, with a firm, warm wind that looks very favorable, and suspicions, those innate feelings that I wish I had left with my tailfins, plague my head and stomach. Something whispers to me that this will be the last time I will be home, the last time I will see my room, lie in my bed. Katrina will not be coming to Madirae—she claims to get horribly seasick—and that whispering warns me that I will not see her again. The possibility pierces me with sadness. Katrina, for all her harsh words and irritable temper, has become a dear friend.

"Well, I might as well say goodbye now, as I'll be busy later," Katrina says, her dry voice unusually warm.

I turn toward her. Her hard, lined face twists into a surprisingly bright smile, and my stomach churns. Unthinkingly, I throw my arms around her neck and hold her tightly. "There, there, now, Miss Grace," she mutters in my ear, patting my back. "You won't be gone for too long. Just long enough to make a two-day trip worthwhile." The old servant pulls away from me, face flushed. I bite my lip and look at my feet. Regular human ladies do not embrace servants, I am certain. Even regular mermaid ladies do not.

Katrina touches my cheek and smiles. "I will miss you, too, child. I do believe I've grown quite…" She hesitates a moment, her brow furrowed as if trying to decide exactly what to say. "…Quite fond of you, despite all you behavior. Give those pompous Madirites your worst for me. Take their ego down a few notches." Katrina's eyes sparkle at the thought. I wonder what the Madirite servants did that she would wish my most frustrating behaviors—my nighttime wandering and my cheek, as Katrina would define them—upon them.

I smile back at her. _I will do my best,_ I promise.

"Good girl. Now, off you go before you are late." She pats my arm, her eyes still lit with surprised delight. I obey her with a reasonably bright smile.

I am not late in reaching the courtyard. Most of the people going on this trip are still running around inside the castle, preparing their clothing for the two-day journey. I study everything around me carefully. These may be my last minutes here. I watch the perfect, warm breeze ruffle through the flower gardens, the sunlight sparkle off the brick paths that crisscross the yard like spokes of a wheel. A small fountain in the center of the paths splashes water onto its low wall. I turn to face the castle, the sunshiny marble-and-gold structure that had looked so imposing and magical a year ago, that now looks like _home_. My heart twists as I realize that this will be my first time ever really away from home, in either life, and it frightens me to not know if I will be coming back.

I almost laugh at my depressing thoughts. This trip is a friendly visit, I remind myself. A friendly visit, and not a thing more. I will be home again in a week or two.

Courtiers begin to file out the castle doors; servants run after them loaded with bags and boxes and trunks. Simultaneously, three large carriages enter the courtyard, and the air is suddenly full of shouts and squeaks and rattles as everyone starts to talk and load the carriages. Seeing the queen and Edmund among the crowd, I hurry over to join them. "Good morning, Grace," the queen greets me, smiling. "Are you ready to leave?"

Ready, I think not. However, it is time to leave, so I nod in response.

Edmund doesn't share his mother's enthusiasm. His expression is resigned, sharply contrasting the queen's excitement and accurately mirroring my own feelings. He wants to avoid this trip almost as fiercely as I want him to avoid it. This convoluted thought makes me smile: the smile feels oddly bitter.

Everyone packs into the carriages, squeezing more tightly into the narrow, cushioned benches than the luggage is squeezed in the back, and, with the sound of the coachmen's shouts, we are off.

The carriages reach the port in less time than it takes to walk into the town, and the travelers spill onto the wharf to the roar of the on-lookers. "Merciful heaven," Edmund mumbles under his breath, gaping at the crowd. It looks as though every human in Tahron has come to see off the royal party; people are packed together more closely than bricks in a wall. The servants unload the baggage from the carriages and push through the crowd toward the ship, courtiers trailing in the wake of space they create.

"Well, come along," the queen instructs. She also looks a little shocked by the number of people but is struggling to hide the feeling behind her usual composure. She plunges into the crowd. I wonder fleetingly if I can drown in people as quickly as I can in water.

Edmund sucks in a deep breath and releases it very slowly. I reach for his hand, smiling with all the courage I can muster when he glances at me. We follow after the queen.

The ship docked at the pier—elegant letters carved into the side announce it as the _Dolphin_—is grand and beautiful, almost twice my height high and at least fifty lengths long. Three huge masts rise from the deck, and a wooden dolphin, perched on a curling wave, leaps in front of the bow. Sailors scramble through the rigging, apparently preparing the _Dolphin_ for the open sea. The ship bobs over the small waves; the masts are so tall that even the tiniest shift in the water makes the tips of the masts swing like pendulums through the air. My stomach twists fearfully just watching the sailors scurry through the rigging.

"I don't like ships, not since the _Sparrow_ sank," Edmund admits, his voice so low that I am not sure he meant for me to hear. Still, he strides up the ramp from the pier to the ship without dropping my hand.

The tempo of my heart increases as I step onto the _Dolphin_'s deck. The wood beneath my feet shifts unsteadily, and the dips and swells send little jolts of excitement and unease through me: excitement for the prospect of a new experience, unease for the lack of solid ground under me. Keeping my balance on this constantly-shifting floor requires a great deal of concentration, and my feet are quickly stinging from the unpredictable shifts in my weight.

A grey-haired man in a brass-buttoned shirt introduces himself as Dudley Davis, captain of the _Dolphin_. "Welcome," he greets his passengers as they crowd around him. "Yer staterooms are below. Ye need only to git a crewman to show ye once we're underway." His accent makes me smile. "We'll be castin' off in a half-hour, iffen it please Her Majesty." He bows toward the queen, who is at the head of the crowd, and, with a grand, ceremonial gesture, removes a small knife from his belt and hands it to her, hilt out.

My stomach dives to my feet; the slight frown that crosses the queen's face as she accepts the captain's knife makes me nervous. Edmund had told me once, long ago—my first day as a human, in fact—that all Honnaleians pay great respect to the sea, and few ever sail over it without offering a few drops of blood as homage to the Sea King. Humans don't really believe in merfolk, yet they still hold to their tradition of appeasing the Sea King. I suspect the queen is initiating this ritual.

My supposition is correct. The queen steps up to the railing of the ship, holds her hand open over the side, and, wincing in anticipation, runs the edge of the blade up the top inch of her first finger. Two drops of blood the color of ripe strawberries drip from her finger and into the sea. Satisfied, she passes the knife to the next courtier and pinches her bleeding finger between the fingers of her other hand.

I stare down at the pale skin on my palm. Do I really want to expose my silver blood in front of the queen and courtiers and crew of the _Dolphin_? I am already considered strange for the color of my skin; I would be deemed completely unnatural for the color of my blood. So, when the not-quite-clean knife is passed to me, I wave it away. Performing this unnecessary ritual would only dredge up the courtiers' poorly-concealed suspicions about me once again.

My refusal sparks a wave of unease through the passengers aboard the ship. "Do ye want to bring bad luck down on this voyage?" Captain Davis, who is standing near me, wonders, not angrily but definitely with surprise.

"Bad luck can befall a voyage regardless," Edmund says quietly, his voice thick with memories. I glance at him, but he is staring out at the horizon. For a moment, I again see the _Sparrow_ breaking apart and slipping beneath the surface, again feel the rush of panic at watching Edmund slowly losing consciousness beneath the waves.

The captain shakes his head, his voice breaking into my memories. "I don't like it. Ye'll bring bad luck down on ye, miss. The Sea King, he don't deal mercifully with people that don't pay him for a safe journey."

I laugh lightly, picturing my father searching for the girl sailing over his ocean without paying her dues and finding me instead. Then, with a more forced laugh, I ask, _Do you really believe in the Sea King?_

Captain Davis does not understand my signing, but my carefully skeptical expression conveys my question just as easily. "Aye, miss, the sea-folk are real. Most land people don't spend enough time at sea to come across them, but I've seen mermaids, sure as the sun shines." A crewman calls for the captain's attention just then, and the captain walks away shaking his head. "I don't like this," I hear him mutter to himself as he hurries to the aid of his crewmate.

"You don't think the Sea King will come after you now?" Edmund wonders, half teasing and half genuinely curious.

I shake my head and smile. _I do not think he will,_ I reply.

The _Dolphin_ is underway less than ten minutes later. Once clear of land, sailors hoist all the yellow-white sails the masts can hold, and the ship glides speedily across the surface of the sea. I wander forward to stand at the bow. Water rushes far beneath the wooden dolphin, the tapered point of the bow cutting through the water and foam with as little trouble as a knife slicing through warm cheese. Seeing the ship rip apart the patches of sea foam resting on the top of the waves makes the knot at the bottom of my stomach tighten, but I rest my arms on the railing and close my eyes, trying to ignore the feeling. The wind smells of salty sunshine and huge, empty spaces.

Edmund joins me a few minutes later. He takes my hand silently and turns his thoughtful stare to the line where the sky meets the water. I watch him for a while, wondering where his mind is, then, realizing that I probably don't want to know, turn back to marvel at the vastness of the sea. The _Dolphin_ glides toward Madirae in silence.

At nightfall, most of the humans go below the deck to bed. Two sailors remain awake, one at the helm and one patrolling the ship, but otherwise the deck is deserted. I sit now, my aching feet dangling off the left side—the port side, I correct myself with a smile, pleased with the new word of my human vocabulary—of the ship. Just before dawn, I see several tailfins break the surface. Five pairs of eyes peer up from the water, recognize me, and move closer to the ship. "Aria," Harmony calls quietly to me. I glance at the humans on deck. The helmsman is looking away from me; the patrolman is dozing at the bow. Confident that we are reasonably alone, I wave and smile. "We have been searching for hours," Harmony adds, her words almost scolding.

"We heard your human is getting married," Andante cuts in. "Is it true?"

I wish I could shake my head, deny the statement. But I cannot do so honestly, so I shrug instead, palms up to indicate that I am not sure.

Harmony glances toward the lightening eastern sky and continues, more hastily, "We will be around, Aria. Opus spoke to the sea witch recently,"—she grimaces as she says her merman's name, a disapproving frown tugging down the corners of her mouth—"and she told him what she said to you. We know everything, and we will be around if you need our help. Take care, little sister." She leads the others back under the surface.

Land is spotted near midmorning. Though it is no more than a tiny strip of coastline far out on the horizon, sailors scramble around in the rigging and courtiers emerge from their hiding places below deck to exclaim over it. "That's Madirae," Edmund tells me, nodding toward the distant, hazy shore and confirming my supposition.

_We have had a very favorable wind,_ I comment.

"Of course. You really have brought bad luck down on this voyage." But he smiles playfully before I can take offence at his words.

"There it is," the queen says as she comes up to the bow. "We'll be there by evening." My empty stomach rumbles at her words. Evening should mean a meal, and I am grateful for the prospect of food, if for nothing else. "Grace?" she then continues in her business-like tone. I turn toward her. "Grace, I think it would be best if you disembarked with the courtiers."

There are many things I thought she might say; with whom I should leave the ship is not one of them. I frown, confused by both the suggestion and the reasons she made it. From the corner of my eye, I see Edmund's expression tighten, but he does not comment, either to agree with or protest his mother's request.

"What I mean is that I think it best for you to leave the ship as just another courtier's daughter."

I very nearly ask why but am able to figure the reason before I ask. Because it would look strange—maybe unseemly, even—if the prince were seen leaving the ship with a girl at his side. He is supposed to be in this country to marry their princess, after all. I nod, understanding and complying. The Honnaleians already view me with suspicion; I do not need the Madirites to as well.

And so, when the _Dolphin_ pulls into the Madirite port to the cheers of a thousand or more humans, I slink in between a few courtiers and try to look inconspicuous. The humans glance sideways at me with distaste and inch back, but I am otherwise ignored. I watch the crowd. The number of people who saw off the _Dolphin_ had been huge. The number to greet it is overwhelming. The roar that assails my ears as I, hidden amongst the courtiers, leave the ship is almost painful. Uncomfortable by being jumbled around so many strangers and terrified of getting lost in this shifting, vociferous mass, I do not push into the crowd.

The noise that accompanies the queen and Edmund's descent from the ship is actually painful. I cover my ears with both hands, the sound ringing in my head, and strain to see Edmund. He is near the middle of the converging crowd, eyes roving over people's faces. He smiles when he sees me and holds out his hand, which I move to accept, but his mother slaps it down with an infinitesimal shake of her head. Then, with a quick smile, the queen offers me her own hand. Come along, Grace, her lips say. Whether or not she gives volume to her words is impossible to determine through the crescendo of shouting. I obey hastily, shoving my way through the humans to put my hand in hers.

At the land side of the wharf is a cobblestone street lined with carriages. Luggage boxes have already been packed into the carriages, and a few courtiers sit inside a few carriages, ready to cross land. A dark-haired servant in brilliant livery bows to the queen and gestures her and Edmund toward a carriage near the front of the line. The queen drops my hand and steps forward.

Panic, as irrational as it is strong, floods my stomach. It is one thing to leave a ship with the courtiers. Such task takes only a few minutes and requires no interaction. But the over-land part of this trip is supposed to be a few hours' length, and riding in a carriage with the courtiers for so long would be horrible. I would rather walk. The queen hasn't made it two full steps before I grab her sleeve and turn her toward me, at the same instant that Edmund protests that surely I can ride with them.

The queen smiles, amused. "Did I ever say you couldn't?" she asks me. I shake my head quickly, insistently. "Then come along. And don't worry, Grace. There'll be food in the carriage." She must be able to hear the way my stomach is complaining about its emptiness. The three of us pile into a carriage grander than the one in Honnaleigh, a servant produces a basket full of warm fruit and cold meat, and the carriage lurches forward.

The city we travel to—the queen calls it Lillith—is enormous. Buildings as tall as trees stretch over the streets, and humans pack between buildings as tightly as they do in Tahron during the Festival. By the end of the mostly-silent afternoon ride, the humans are all sore and grumpy, and I, aware that grumpy humans rarely like to be bothered with my curiosity, twist my hands together to prevent them from asking all my questions about how all the buildings could be so large and why the Madirite townspeople need so much space indoors but so little outdoors.

Eventually, the carriage halts, and the door opens. The queen takes a moment to rearrange her previously vacant stare into an interested, genial smile before stepping out. Edmund looks at me and sighs. "Well, we're here," he announces quietly. Then he, too, reorders his expression to one a bit warmer and slides from the carriage. I follow after him, momentarily eager to see the Madirite castle.

It is gargantuan, blocking the sky completely from view and made of stones the same brooding grey color as the Honnaleian cliffs. Two identical towers, laced with holes shaped like T's that are clearly too small to be windows, border the castle's gated entrance. Beyond the iron gates, four colossal trees drape cold shadows over the path to the castle's front door. For a moment, I can only stand and stare up at the forbidding towers, battling sudden and powerful feelings of fear and insignificance. This is bad, this is very bad, something in my head warns me. My breathing hitches and becomes unsteady.

Edmund reaches for my hand and squeezes my fingers. "They're nice people, Grace," he mutters reassuringly. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

_It is so dark…_ My shaking fingers do not allow me to finish. Edmund smiles slightly and leads me between those frightening towers after his mother.

"Welcome!" A booming male voice bounces off the walls of the dark, narrow corridor through which a servant guides us. "Welcome, Queen Adrienne, Prince Edmund, honored guests!" The hallway opens into a high-ceilinged room lit by a dozen torches; the smoke from the torches hangs in the air like fog, making the entire room smell like burnt food. There are no windows, only a few of those T-shaped slits through which no natural light can enter. A long wooden table sits squarely in the middle of the room, and just to this side of the table stand two humans, a man and a woman, dressed in long fur robes. The man moves toward the queen, a smile of welcome on his thin face. He is tall and angular, with a looseness to his limbs that puts me in mind of a poorly-stuffed plush toy. Stone-grey hair waves down to his shoulders, and stone-grey whiskers mask his chin. King Ferdinand, I guess by the jeweled golden band that circles his brow.

The woman to his left smiles graciously. She is markedly younger than the king, probably only half his age. Her skin is creamy and soft, and brown hair curls nearly to her waist. Her eyes are deep blue. I wonder if this is the beautiful Madirite princess we are here to meet.

"King Ferdinand," the queen greets him, clasping his hand. "Queen Belinda. How lovely it is to see you again."

Queen Belinda. Then we have yet to the see the princess. My impatient sigh almost escapes my mouth.

"I am sorry my daughter is not here yet. Her ship will be arriving tomorrow, and she'll be joining us for dinner next evening," King Ferdinand explains. "But, come, come, friends, you must be famished and tired from your trip." He gestures toward the table and turns to seat himself.

Edmund glances at me, his expression at once nervous and annoyed. Tomorrow, he says silently.

I nod and bite my lip. Tomorrow…


	25. The Madirite Princess

"I don't want to do this," Edmund admits later, after a servant has shown us our rooms.

I force myself to smile. _It is a little late for that now,_ I comment.

He pulls one hand through his hair and paces across the width of the narrow hall. "The Madirite princess. What if she doesn't like me?" Then he stops suddenly and goes very still, as though frightened by his thoughts. "What if she does?"

_Then you marry her and have children and live happily ever after,_ I reply. The corridor is dark, and the tremor in my fingers is slight, so I hope he cannot see how frightening the possibility is: Edmund with a wife and children, happy and prosperous—without me. The thought stings.

"That doesn't sound too bad, I guess. But…what happens to you?"

I bow my head quickly, using the hair that closes around my face to hide the suddenly pained expression I can feel myself wearing. Tell him, a voice in the back of my head prods. I know there will never be a better chance to explain what his marriage will mean for me, never be a better chance to repeat the words that have played in my head, over and over for weeks. "The morning after his marriage to another…" Things would be better if he knew. But what could I tell him? "Edmund, I am really a mermaid who went to the sea witch so that I could become human and be with you. If you do not marry me, I will never have a soul, and, if you marry someone else, I will dissolve into sea foam the next morning"? He would have no reason to _believe_ me; he would think it was a joke and laugh.

There are some things that just cannot be told, no matter how much better everything could be if they were. I cannot force my hands to move even an inch.

"It doesn't matter," Edmund says hastily, "because she's going to be as dull and pompous as any courtier's daughter at home, and we won't like each other one bit, and that will be the end of my mother's scheme to marry me off." He puts a finger under my chin and tilts my head back until I am looking at him. "No worries, Grace. We won't like each other, and that will be the end of all this Madirite princess nonsense. We'll be home before this wretched castle can turn even you crazy."

I smile, amused by how accurately he had picked up on my reaction to the Madirite castle. During dinner, I had been thinking that this dark, sunless building could make me mad in only a few days.

"All right?" Concern touches his eyes. I nod, and Edmund smiles. "All right." His thumb brushes lightly down my cheek, and, for a single second, something flickers through his expression but is gone before I can identify it. "My little mermaid," he whispers, his voice unusually soft. Without dropping his hand from my face, he kisses my forehead. It's been nearly a full year since the first time he kissed me goodnight, but time and familiarity have never made me immune to the feeling of his warm lips against my cool skin. I sigh quietly and close my eyes. After a single too-short moment, he pulls away and regards me thoughtfully. "If, someday, I were to ask you to…marry me"—he stumbles a little over the word—"what would you say?"

Whatever expression I had been wearing freezes momentarily on my face while I process the question. Then a surprised smile creeps across my face. _I thought you did not love me that way,_ I admit when the smile begins to feel confused. Even if he had begun to rethink the possibility, I cannot guess as to why he is bringing the subject up now, here in some dark corridor in the middle of the Madirite castle.

Edmund inhales and opens his mouth as though to respond, but then snaps his mouth closed, so hard that I can hear his teeth click together, and, with a small, noncommittal smile, he shakes his head and wishes me a pleasant night.

Mermaids do not have any particularly accurate powers of premonition. Perhaps my most innate senses are sharper than an average human's, but that is only because I was raised to pay attention to those instincts. However, I can no more see into the future than a fish can. And so, when morning dawns over Madirae, I try to ignore the feelings of foreboding that are lodged in a tight knot at the bottom of my stomach. I attempt all morning to reason myself out of the fear that crawls down my arms and through my insides. Edmund has no plans to like the princess and seems, in fact, to be prepared to _dis_like her. He is happy with me.

Maybe I do not need to say that reasoning myself out of foreboding does not work.

The princess's ship arrives midmorning, and she is in the castle in the afternoon, in a closed-off room where she spends some time "freshening up" from her journey. "We cannot have her meet you smelling of seaweed," Queen Belinda comments with a smile over a cup of tea. The patterns of the Madirite royalty are complicated: food in the morning, at midday, and in the evening like at home, but they throw in a few extra times as well. The one right now is called "teatime." The tea is little more than hot water in floral china cups, and the tiny cakes that pass as food are hard to chew. The Madirite king and queen, Edmund's mother, Edmund, and I sit at a small circular table in a room across the castle from the high-ceilinged dining hall. Queen Belinda offers to pour me more tea, and, unable to think of any polite way to decline, I nod agreeably, missing my chocolate-covered strawberries. "Even a princess as lovely as my daughter can still pick up a stink from the sea," she continues to Edmund as she lowers the teapot.

I swallow the hot liquid too quickly and burn the inside of my mouth. The Madirite queen does not even glance at me as she makes the comment, but I cannot help wondering if she can smell me and said such a thing because she does not like the way my hair forever radiates the salty smell of home. Edmund nods acknowledgement to Queen Belinda and smiles his most reassuring smile at me, as though his thoughts had also flashed to the many times he has told me that I smell like sea salt. I smile back, reassured, and start gnawing through another too-small, too-hard cake.

Teatime is nearly over when a servant enters the room. "Your Majesties," he greets the royalties, "the princess requests that she be allowed to meet the prince now, privately."

Edmund nearly chokes on his mouthful of tea, swallowing it just in time to prevent himself from spitting it back out. "Now?" he repeats, too loudly. All color has drained away from his face.

"Yes, sir, unless that is a problem," the servant replies with a shallow bow. The other three humans watch with wondering expressions.

"No, there is no problem, of course not," Edmund stutters. "I'm just…um…" For a long moment, he fusses anxiously with his shirt. Color has not yet returned to his face. "Yes, all right. Show me to the princess," he orders after a moment, standing. He meets my eyes with a meaningful look, not just inviting me along but commanding me to come. Edmund so rarely commands anything that his order is not to be ignored.

I give the servant and him a few seconds before standing myself. "Grace," the queen begins, in the tone of reproof I have heard from her more in the past few days than in all the time I have been on land.

_I must use the lavatory,_ I lie quickly. Without giving her a moment to protest, I start from the room.

"She's a strange creature," I hear Queen Belinda mutter as I leave. I wince, supposing that I would be out of hearing range if I were a normal human.

"Is she? I've never noticed," Edmund's mother returns tightly.

"Tell me, is your son _very_ fond of her?" Thankfully, I escape the tearoom before I hear any more.

Edmund is not far ahead. I hurry to catch up to him. We follow the servant down a few dark, smoky corridors in silence until he stops in front of a pair of intimidating doors with a detailed scene of dragons battling knights carved into their panels. The servant bows low and pads away. "I think," Edmund whispers, his voice shaking, "I think I'm nervous."

I smile brightly, trying to infuse my expression with encouragement and ignore the sickening knot at the bottom of my stomach, and reach for the doors' brass knobs. The doors unlatch with the faintest click and swing open into the hallway on noiseless hinges. Gulping, Edmund strides into the room; I stand back, hovering just inside the doorway.

The room is, as the doors promise, both intimidating and beautiful. It would take at least twenty-five large paces to reach the far wall, and probably close to forty to cover the width of the room. Though the walls are of the same dull grey rock used to build the castle, the depressing color is barely visible between the dozens of colorful, elaborate tapestries. Cut into the far wall is the first real window I have seen in Madirae, and streaming sunlight illuminates patterned carpets so deep that my feet sink a full half-inch into them. A large bed with a mattress three hands thick, covered by a soft blue canopy, sits against the wall to the left. A vanity, dresser, and full-length mirror stand just left of the window. And in front of the mirror, her back toward us, is the Madirite princess.

"I beg your pardon for intruding, but I was told you were expecting me," Edmund says from the center of the room. Only because I know his voice so well am I able to catch the nervous edge on it.

"Oh, is that you, Prince Edmund? Yes, I did send Roger to find you." Her voice is high but firm, a voice that is certainly able to be projected across a crowded room; it has a faint musical lilt that I have never heard above the surface that suggests she is a natural-born singer. Then, slowly, the Madirite princess turns. "Welcome."

She really is every bit as beautiful as everyone has said. Indeed, to call her beautiful is an insult. The princess is ravishing. She is several inches taller than me, almost Edmund's height. Her dark brown hair ripples to the middle of her back, and, when she steps into the shaft of sun slicing through her room, each strand of hair shimmers gold. Her eyes are the color of the cloudless summer sky, wide and intelligent, and her full lips, now stretched into a smile, perfectly balance her round face. Her arms and face bear evidence of longtime exposure to sunlight; brown has almost entirely replaced red and yellow in her skin.

Such excess of beauty is so memorable that I recognize the Madirite princess instantly, though I have only seen her twice, from some distance and in entirely different surroundings and circumstances. I stumble back a few steps, until the doorframe breaks my retreat, suddenly flooded with the realization that all my fears were not irrational. My breaths drag painfully from my chest as I turn my attention to Edmund, hoping desperately against reason and logic and odds and everything else that he won't know the princess.

Edmund stands fixed in the middle of the room, staring blankly for a moment as the Madirite princess's beauty overwhelms his senses. Then the blank stare turns into a thoughtful frown, which morphs back into a blank stare. This second stare is different from the first: it is the blankness of profound surprise. I cling to the doorframe, holding myself up by my fingernails. He has recognized her.

Edmund takes a single step forward, his eyes wide with shock. Isabella? his lips wonder.

The princess smiles wider, showing off straight white teeth. "Dear Edmund. It is good to see you when you are healthy and not half-drowned."

"Isabella?" Edmund asks again, with volume—though very little—this time. "Isabella…? _You_ are the…the Madirite princess?"

"I am."

"You never told me you were a princess."

She lowers her eyes and tinges red in her cheeks and ears. "You never asked."

Only three steps separate them, and Edmund takes them in a rush. He reaches up and touches her cheek so gently that he may not actually be touching her. "Am I dreaming?" he whispers, almost inaudibly, his voice worried.

The princess looks up through her lashes. "I don't think so, unless we're having the same dream." She laughs lightly.

And then his lips are on hers. He lifts her off the floor and twirls her around without breaking the kiss.

Does a human heart make a sound when it shatters? Mine does.

I stagger from the room, broken. More than broken. Shredded. Ripped to pieces like a block of cheese through a metal grater. I bring down my full weight with each step, for the first time encouraging the stabbing pain that shoots up my legs. The usual pain distracts me a little as I move blindly through halls and corridors, not paying any attention to my direction, except…away.

Away from the princess's sunlit room and the princess's impossible beauty.

Away from the love in Edmund's black eyes and the realization that that love is not directed at me.

Away from the pain of a broken heart, as if there is a way to escape that.

Eventually, a wall springs up in front of me, blocks my path of retreat, and I, unable to keep moving, press into it, pushing it into my forehead until my head hurts. My knees give out, and I crumple to the floor. If I could shed tears, I would be sobbing. As it is, though, I only pull my knees up to my chest and bury my face into the cloth of my skirt. Breathing hurts. I wonder vaguely how long it would take me to suffocate if I were to just stop breathing, if suffocating would be a terrible way to die. If it would be worse than dissolving. If it _could_ be worse than dissolving.

--

"Grace?" Edmund's voice floats into my consciousness as though across a vast, empty room. I become aware that all my limbs are stiff and my head hurts. I uncurl from my position and struggle to sit up. Lightheadedness sweeps through me, chases away any thoughts I might be trying to think. I rest my head against the wall to my back, the buzzing in my ears at once both strangely inaudible and the loudest sound I can hear. "Have you been here all afternoon?"

I know that the words have meaning, but my slippery consciousness is not allowing me to understand what the meaning might be. Still, I nod slowly because it is clear that Edmund is expecting a reply. The movement makes my head throb.

"What's wrong, Grace?" Worry always tightens and lowers his voice.

I try harder to understand what he is saying, because Edmund often sounds that way when something is bothering him. The only thing I can tell for sure is wrong with me is my head. _I think I am hurt,_ I answer carefully, glad to see that my hands still can function even with my mind still whirling untraceably through my head.

"Where?"

That word, at least, makes sense, breaks through the fuzziness in my mind and helps to focus my surroundings. I am in a very dark hallway with passages in front of me and to both the left and right. Edmund is kneeling in front of me, his eyes sweeping over me with sudden concern. My head is pounding, overshadowing even the pain in my feet. _My head hurts,_ I reply.

Edmund nods, unsurprised. "You've been on the floor for a while," he surmises, and the disapproving edge on his voice makes him sound suddenly like Katrina. He smiles a little, and a little of the pain loosens, enough that I have the presence of mind to wonder where I am and why I do not recognize this hallway. I had thought I knew all the hallways in the castle. "Let's get you to bed," Edmund suggests, standing and helping me to my feet. Without releasing my hand, he leads me down the straight, wide hallways to the right. The hall confuses me; it is too wide, too straight, too dark. No corridors at home are shaped this way or made with this material.

At home. But I am not at home. I am in Madirae, to see the Madirite princess.

The Madirite princess…

All the pain that had sent me running from her room earlier crashes onto me with a force that leaves me breathless. I must have stumbled, because Edmund stops and reaches out his free hand to steady me. _You know the Madirite princess?_ I ask, my signing stilted because he is holding one hand.

A bright, excited smile crosses his face. "Isabella. Yes. I told you about Isabella."

_The girl in the convent,_ I recall. _The one you are in love with._

Edmund shakes his head, that radiant smile still firmly in place. "I guess someone must love me." His voice is light, teasing, and I understand that the statement was meant to be a joke, but it pulls at the broken edges of my heart and hurts my chest.

_Someone does,_ my thoughts agree as he leads me forward again. _Someone does love you, more than you know._ But, though I ache to express the thoughts, my free right hand stays quiet at my side; only my left, tucked into Edmund's warm hand, react at all to my thoughts, squeezing his fingers gently before I recognize the door to the room assigned to me and dropping his hand. To tell him now, to force him to choose, would be a mistake. It would hurt him, and I cannot—I will not—do that.

Nothing, not even my life, is more important to me than Edmund's happiness.

Edmund turns to smile at me. "And to think that, only last night, I was worried about not liking her," he marvels quietly. "It's funny how fast everything can change. I suppose I'll be proposing to her in the morning." It takes me a moment to understand the meaning behind the word "proposing," that he intends to propose marriage to Isabella tomorrow. My stomach wrenches as hard as my heart does. "Well, I should get back to dinner. Goodnight, Grace." He smiles again before turning away and hurrying back up the hallway.

I stand outside the room for several minutes, my aching head throbbing, cold seeping into my bones. My mind moves wearily, exhausted, trapped on the moment when Edmund had swept Isabella up in his arms…

I shiver and wrap my arms around myself. Everything can change very quickly, but in no way is that funny. My life was perfect the way it was. I go into the room eventually, long after it becomes clear that Edmund is not coming back, and lie down on the bed. The pillows are lumpy, and the blanket itches, but I ignore the discomforts more completely than I had thought possible; not even lumpy pillows or itchy blankets can make an impression on my broken mind.

Tonight, pain and confusion and weariness all mingle together and close my eyes for me, and, after an hour or so, my exhausted stupor switches slowly into a shallow sleep.


	26. Jealousy

**Author's Note (2009): Because of the massive revision I've been making to the end of this story, all chapters following this one will be deleted and reposted. Thank you for your patience as I continue editing this story. Enjoy!**

--

Queen Belinda does not take kindly to Edmund and Isabella's conspicuous absence from breakfast, even though the servant named Roger had been waiting in the dining hall to explain that the prince and princess were taking a stroll around the grounds and should not be expected back before breakfast was finished. "I should think that she would have better manners, or did we send her off to the convent for nothing?" the annoyed young queen grouses.

"There, there, my dear," King Ferdinand says with a consoling pat to his wife's hand. "I suspect Prince Edmund has plans to ask Isabella to marry him."

"Oh, they are already getting married," Queen Belinda returns offhandedly.

"Yes, but my son would want to do things properly. He would still want to ask her," Queen Adrienne cuts in, smiling.

I pick through my breakfast, only half listening. Loneliness steals my appetite.

Edmund and Isabella enter the dining hall near the end of breakfast and stand in the exact center of the room. "Prince Edmund has asked me to marry him…" Isabella announces in her clear, high voice.

"…And Princess Isabella has said yes!" Edmund finishes, beaming like the summer sun.

Parents, servants, and both Madirite and Honnaleian courtiers leap to their feet and cheer. I stand, too, clapping and smiling with all the enthusiasm I can conjure or feign. Isabella twines her arm through Edmund's and stares at him, and, for a long moment, Edmund stares back, his gaze made up of equal parts joy and adoration. Anger flares in my chest, deep, intense anger that almost completely overshadows the painful edges of my heart. That Edmund can smile like that at everyone except me, that Isabella can stand there enjoying it, that both of them can be so entirely oblivious to everything but each other… Jealousy batters against every muscle and bone of my body, far more forceful than I had expected it to be. I sink down into the chair again, my smile slipping off my face. I had expected having to deal with some jealousy as part of accepting my fate, but its power is unexpected and intense, like being suddenly smashed in the head with an iron pot.

Footsteps to the right of my chair cause me to look up. "Isabella, this is Grace," Edmund introduces me once I am paying attention. "Grace, my lovely bride-to-be"—he smiles with pleasure at the words—"Princess Isabella of Madirae."

Isabella holds out her hand, palm down, as though she expects me to kiss it. The tilt of her chin makes her look proud, almost haughty, though her smile is warm. I stand, fighting a glare, and curtsy without touching her. In the mermaid world, a kiss to the hand is a token of welcome; in the human world, it is a show of respect. I cannot bring myself to make the gesture in either mindset.

"Ah, so you are the girl Edmund speaks so fondly of," Isabella comments, dropping her hand to her side with an enviable lack of embarrassment. She meets my gaze, and her lips twitch; she, too, is struggling to hold on to her smile. "It's such a pleasure to meet you." I nod once in return and sit down again. From the corner of my eye, I can see the smile slide off her face and her eyebrows pull together into a frown; my curt response to her polite greeting has offended her. I do not have enough feeling left inside of me to care.

"Grace just doesn't like strangers," Edmund whispers. I scowl at my plate. If it were only my discomfort with strangers that was now twisting up my every thought and feeling, my every dream and desire, I would probably be able to behave politely. But Edmund's earlier words—"my lovely bride-to-be"—are tangling themselves in what is left of my heart. And they spark another, shallower, more selfish dread as they mix in my memory with the sea witch's hissed warning, "The morning after his marriage to another, you will disssolve into ssea foam."

Isabella tries again after a moment, sitting in the empty chair to my right. "I hope we can be friends, Grace. I haven't had a friend my age in longer than I can remember—at least not one that wasn't set on taking her vows and pledging herself to the church." She grimaces. "You won't find a person on Earth as kind as the nuns from Saint Melania's Abbey, but they never did make for good friends. They are all very single-minded and very, very routine-driven. Edmund about gave them all heart attacks." She glances over at Edmund, who has taken another empty chair and sat down, positioned between us but back from the table like the third point of a triangle, and they chuckle together over some shared memory that raises my curiosity in spite of all my pain.

Edmund notices my interest and smiles at me. "I haven't told you much about what happened, have I?" he says, abashed. I shake my head, and they begin to tell stories about the other nuns in the convent where Isabella had received most of her education. Stories from Edmund's week there, recovering from his shipwreck, about the flustered women who had not seen a man in twenty-five years and anthills hidden by flowers.

Edmund, Isabella, and I remain in the dining hall long after the last courtier leaves. Conversation is stilted, awkward at first—Isabella is trying too hard, and I am trying too little. It is Edmund who keeps us there, who jumps into the long silences, who fights to keep us conversing. Once during the first half-hour we spend sitting at the table, in one of those long pauses that causes me to consider leaving, I glance at him and am surprised by the expression on his face. He is chewing on his bottom lip, his eyes tight up with unmistakable tension as they dart between Isabella and me. And I understand his thoughts as clearly as though he had said them aloud: he wants her and me to get along, to like each other. He does not want to be forced to choose between us, the close friend and the true love.

I look away, for a long moment watching my pale hand fiddle with my breakfast fork. There are some things I can hide, some things I can pretend. I do not know if my feelings toward Isabella are things I can keep to myself. But I can at least try. For Edmund. I rearrange my expression into a friendly smile—it takes some effort but is easier than I had thought it might be—and look up again. When conversation begins to flag again, I answer Isabella's questions and ask a few of my own. Edmund beams at me, then turns to Isabella and translates my signs.

Confusions flickers across Isabella's face as she processes the change in my mood, but she responds with enthusiasm, and the three of us sit in the hall until nearly midday.

It is almost easy, here under Edmund's sunny smile and Isabella's friendly attention, to forget the circumstances surrounding this meeting; once I have engaged myself, conversation flows naturally through a broad range of easy topics: Saint Melania's Abbey, the _Dolphin_, Tahron during the Festival. Even thinking about home does not hurt as much as it should. But no moment of peace can last forever, and this one ends during the midday meal, when King Ferdinand rises to his feet and announces the date of the wedding. "After much discussion between Belinda, Adrienne, and me, it has been decided that, one week from today, Prince Edmund of Honnaleigh and Princess Isabella of Madirae will be wed in Port Anne and will sail for Honnaleigh immediately following the ceremony."

The pain that crashes through me at this reminder rips the breath from my throat. Edmund is marrying Isabella. In exactly one week. And I will dissolve into nothingness at the next sunrise. My fingers tremble.

The afternoon is very long and very quiet—at least for me. To the humans, the day probably feels too short by half. Madirite servants, hastened along by the implementation of a deadline, rush through the castle like a school of minnows spotted by a shark. They reach out and snatch the half-dozen Honnaleian servants, too, which makes the courtier complain about their clothes and hair not being perfect and having no servants around to fix it. In the sea, weddings take months of planning and preparations. Humans are impulsive creatures.

Even with the Madirite castle bursting with activity, I have nothing to do. Edmund has been holed up with his mother, Isabella, and her parents, presumably making up a marriage contract, since King Ferdinand's announcement. I wander the hallways for a while, until one grumpy servant tells me to get useful or get out, and I am banished outdoors. I sit at the base of one of the four colossal trees that shadow the courtyard and watch the wind blow through the leaves of the others. Madirae makes me tired and homesick. I miss windows and sun and the jagged, frighteningly high cliffs that rise from the sea. I miss the smell of salt on the air and the vastness of the horizon. Everything here is dark, enclosed: walls to the front and sides, huge mountains to the back. The mountains are lauded by the Honnaleian courtiers for their beauty, but I am too used to the openness of the sea to think them beautiful.

As the sun begins its descent toward the ground, a servant—Honnaleian, by her immediate recognition of me—summons me inside. "Why, Miss Grace, have you been here all afternoon?" she asks, brushing at the dirt on my skirt and fussing enough to make Katrina proud. "Supper is going on the table now, and you missed teatime by hours!" I remember to be thankful for heaven's small mercies as I hurry into the high-ceilinged dining hall.

Supper is nothing but an extension of the tedium. The table in the dining hall is crowded when I arrive, so I slide into an empty seat at the end and keep my head down. Isabella's merry laugh rings every few minutes above the clatter of dishes and the chatter of courtiers, and each laugh feels like the edge of Dressela's knife against my tongue. "The morning after his marriage to another," the witch had explained to me, "you will disssolve into ssea foam." I wish I could somehow turn off those words, block the memory that holds them, but I cannot, so they continue to play in my head without end. "The morning after his marriage to another…"

I cannot prevent my eyes from straying to my left, to where Edmund and Isabella sit, and I cannot keep the despair out of my thought when my eyes do stray from my plate. They are not Grace's thoughts. Grace has always been happy and does not know how to be otherwise. But Aria, my old, unhappy self that I cannot seem to quite overcome, still lurks somewhere in the corner of my mind, always willing and ready to take control of my thoughts. She runs through all the typical thoughts, reminding me of all the regrets I have tried so hard to bury. I have given up everything that ever mattered to me before for the ridiculous notion that a human could ever love a fish. And not even just a fish, but a _strange_ fish.

I cannot pin my problem on Edmund. Though it might make things easier to call Edmund dishonest, unfaithful, I cannot do that. Our intentions had always been mismatched, right from the beginning: he had always loved me as a friend and nothing more, and it was my own wishes, my own misunderstandings, that had caused me to hope otherwise. He has always been free of any obligation to me. I push my food around on my plate, wondering yet again if being human has ever been worth the risk. Isabella laughs, drawing everyone's eyes toward her. I glance, a bit more surreptitiously, from the corner of my eyes at Edmund. He is grinning widely and speaking to his bride-to-be.

He looks so happy, happier than I have ever seen him before. His smile reaches from one end of his face to the other—his happiest smiles are always much too large for his face—and his black eyes dance with joy. I sigh quietly and look away, trying with dubious success to hide the pangs of conflicting emotion that throb through me. The corner of my mind that has always belonged to Aria flares with jealousy, angry at Isabella for ruining my hopes, my wishes, my life. But the other part, the slightly larger part that wants only Edmund's well-being, acknowledges that he is far happier with Isabella than he has ever been with me.

Whether being human has been worth the risk or not is not really the important question. My worth has no relevance. There is only Edmund's happiness. If Isabella, the Madirite princess, the girl who found him on the shore the morning after his shipwreck, makes him happier than I do or could, then nothing else really matters.

I shiver, frightened by the passivity of my thoughts. After all I have been through, all the pain I have suffered, all the people I have lost, it should not feel so easy to just give up on everything I have ever wanted. But it does. Embracing my fate feels so much easier than fighting would be. I cannot win—fate is so much larger, so much stronger, than I am—so what would be the purpose of trying?


	27. Concerns

Breakfast, morning, and midday continue the dreariness of the previous day. I have begun to wonder if my sanity might crack from loneliness. I know that everyone is busy with wedding preparations, but it does not seem to me that asking for someone to greet me good morning would inhibit wedding preparations. But I suppose it must, because I have been completely forgotten, except when Edmund flashes the occasional smile in my direction and Isabella glances at me, her expression indecipherable.

I nearly trip over Isabella in a corridor that afternoon. "Ah, Grace, there you are," she says. Her voice is strained, uncertain, which strikes me as unusual for her, but she smiles graciously at me and recovers her natural poise with unnerving speed. "I was just looking for you. Do you have a moment?" I nod slowly—my inactivity is too obvious to lie about it—and she takes me by the elbow and guides me into the tearoom. "Please sit. I need to talk to you." I sit, anxious, at a table near the corner of the room. Isabella remains standing another moment, breathing deeply as though steeling herself for a difficult conversation, then sits across the table from me and smiles again. "So, what do you think of my home?" Her question is the kind of small talk favored by courtiers, and her tone is exceptionally polite.

I grimace. The polite answer would be that her palace is grand and the mountains are beautiful, but all my civil feelings toward her vanish without Edmund here to encourage them. _I think it is dark and smelly and painfully lacking in windows,_ I reply after a moment, my signs less than cheerful. It does not matter much anyway; I know she cannot understand me.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Isabella blushes. "I forgot about…well, no matter. You'll have to teach me how to sign sometime, but, for now, perhaps you should just listen."

I fold my arms across my chest and lean back into my chair, sweeping my hand out in a motion to tell her that she should proceed. All the months of practice I have had at hiding my expression is barely enough to keep the scowl off my face.

"Edmund tells me that you have always been a good friend to him, and he wants you to have a part in our wedding." This is not the topic Isabella wishes to address—she had begun much too hesitantly for her real concern to be including me in the wedding—but I allow her to continue without interruption. "Unfortunately, my father has already approved the bridesmaids and won't hear of a change to his plans"—she frowns, annoyed—"so I cannot ask you to be my bridesmaid. However, if you are willing, I can ask you to hold my train while in the church, which is the best I can manage. Grace, will you hold my train while I marry?"

I do not know what she means by holding her train, but I cannot ask her to explain. I nod, resolving to ask Edmund or his mother at my next opportunity. Isabella nods back, pleased, and falls silent for so long that I begin to think that really was all she wanted. But, as I start to stand, she puts her hand on my arm and sits me back into my seat. "Actually, Grace, there's something else," she admits. I again gesture at her to continue, but the something else is a more sensitive topic: Isabella fiddles uncomfortably with the already-set teatime silver. I wait with growing anxiety, wanting to be somewhere else—anywhere else: lost in a crowd of strangers, being accused of plotting by the courtiers, drowning in the sea—anywhere but here, across the table from the girl who is, surely if unwittingly, stealing away everything I have ever wanted.

After a minute, Isabella replaces the fork she had been examining and looks at me with another of her indecipherable expressions. "Edmund is wonderful, isn't he?" she asks. Her voice trembles a little, as though she is repressing something, some underlying insecurity she has regarding him—or me.

I fight back a quick smile and nod, agreeing with her statement. "Wonderful" hardly even begins to describe him.

"You probably don't realize how often, or how fondly, he talks about you." It is some comfort to know that Edmund speaks _of_ me a little, since he has decided to not speak _to_ me anymore. "Sometimes," Isabella adds with a slight, forced laugh, "the way he talks, I wonder why he didn't marry you six months ago."

The unrealized possibility burns through my chest and down my arms when she says it aloud, twisting painfully at the raw spot where my heart had been. _He did not because he gave his heart to you before he met me,_ I interrupt, without having decided to do so.

Isabella nods as if my comment means something to her, even though we both know it does not, and continues. "I don't resent his affection for you. You've obviously been good friends for a long time, and I understand how easy it must have been for him to like you." She smiles, and her beauty hits me like a slap in the face. The courtiers had not lied, or even exaggerated, when they called the Madirite princess the most beautiful girl ever. Even if she had not been the woman with whom Edmund was already in love, I would not have stood even the slightest chance against Isabella's pleasantness and beauty and poise.

Her smile slips off her face after a moment, and she leans toward me, her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her balled-up hands. Her tones changes suddenly, from light and conversational to very serious. "But…I am a little worried about you, the way you…" She pauses, hunting for a phrase, before continuing slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. "The way you return his regard."

I am jolted by the sudden change in the conversation. I had thought she was going to talk about Edmund, maybe warn me that she was going to establish his distance as the new normal. I did not think she would start talking about my behavior, which, though a little disengaged, has been above reproach these past few days.

"I do understand, Grace," she assures me hastily. "Believe me, I do understand; he's really much too loveable for his own good—or, rather, for mine." Her laughter is strained. "But…how can I keep from worrying about it? I see the way you look at him, and I hear the way he speaks about you, and—I can't help it, Grace. It makes me…well, if you want to know the truth, it makes me jealous." She rushes through her confession, her cheeks flushing. She is not used to admitting how she feels, and it embarrasses her to do it now.

Isabella stops talking to study my reaction, and I surprise us both by laughing, hard and aloud. I had thought that Isabella was above such a terrible human emotion as jealousy, that I was the only one who felt the animosity that results from it. But here Isabella sits, her face red with embarrassment, admitting that she is jealous of me, even though she is about to be married to Edmund and I am about to dissolve into nothingness because of it. The whole situation is irrationally and bitterly funny.

Isabella laughs with me after a moment, a soft, breathless laugh unlike the bright, merry laughs she usually has, her eyebrows coming together in confusion. I cannot explain with words, so, once I have regained some control of myself, I reach over the table and pat her arm, trying to convey that her worries are completely unnecessary. My days are numbered with increasingly smaller numbers.

I see Edmund in a quiet corridor after supper the next night. He has not had a free moment in days, and I hurry to catch up with him. Edmund notices me after a few steps and smiles in my direction. "How are you?" he asks after a minute.

_I am all right,_ I lie brightly, half-hoping that he will not believe me. I have not successfully lied to him in a long time.

But Edmund is distracted and does not notice much. "Good. I'm glad that this place hasn't turned you mad yet."

_Isabella asked me to hold her train during the wedding. I told her I would, but I do not exactly know what it is I agreed to do. What does that mean, that I am to hold her train?_ The words stumble off my fingers like babble as I struggle to claim some of his attention.

Mentioning Isabella does just that. At least he focuses on me and loses the vagueness in his voice. "Wedding dresses often have a long piece in the back," he explains. "Holding the train means keeping that piece off the ground." I nod in understanding. Isabella has given me an easy job. "Is this going to be your first wedding, then?" I nod again. "Well, I hope you enjoy it."

The vagueness is back in his voice, and it frightens me. I reach out and grab his hand, bringing us both to a stop in the corridor. Edmund turns to face me, and I drop his hand. _I have not seen you in days,_ I observe.

"I've been very busy," Edmund says with a small shrug.

I study the edges of an uneven stone under my feet for a moment before looking up again. _I miss you._

Edmund pauses, as though whatever had been running through his mind has suddenly stopped, and focuses on me with a smile clearly meant to be reassuring. "I'm still here," he promises, his voice sincere. "These past few days have been a little hectic"—the word is half-laughed—"but, once the wedding's over and we get back home, things will go back to normal."

The brief moment of calm brought by his smile dies as those last words hit me, painfully reminding me that I will not see home, that my last hours of life will be spend aboard the _Dolphin_, amidst the party to follow the wedding. I cross my arms over my chest and return to staring at the stones beneath my feet. In my periphery, I can see Edmund take half-a-step toward me and begin to lift one hand as though to reach out and touch my shoulder, but the motion is stayed by the sound of a servant's voice in the hallway. "Begging your pardon, sir, but your mother's asking after you," she says, bobbing a curtsy to Edmund and ignoring my presence entirely.

I glance up; Edmund grimaces wearily. "Duty calls," he sighs. "Don't ever have a wedding, Grace. They're wretched, demanding things."

I smile back at him, aware of the bitterness that leaks into the expression. _I doubt I will ever have a wedding,_ I reply. I will not even have another night in my own bed.

Edmund looks at me for a long moment. Then, even with the Madirite servant watching, he reaches up and brushes his fingers across my forehead, tucking behind my ear the hair that had fallen across my face. "Goodnight," he says quietly before turning and hurrying off to meet his mother.


	28. Friends

The days pass slowly. Isabella, determined in spite of my reluctance to be my friend, seeks my company as often as wedding preparations will allow her. Though she cannot understand my signs, she encourages me to attempt to communicate with her. "I don't know signing, but I've always been good at pantomimes," she tells me one afternoon while we sit beneath one of the colossal trees in the castle courtyard. I had come out here to escape the smoky, dark hallways of the castle, the hectic but cheerful bustle of wedding arrangements, to spend a little time breathing air that does not burn my eyes and lungs. I had wanted to be alone, to spend a few minutes not having to think about how I should look and act around all those happy humans, and I wish for some way that I could ask Isabella to leave, but, barring that, I have tried to ignore her as best I can. Though today the sun is hidden by a thick layer of grey clouds, the air is warm and smells strongly of unfamiliar flowers. Edmund is tucked away in some back room with his mother and the Madirite king and queen as usual.

I consider continuing to ignore Isabella, but finally decide against it. She is here and is unlikely to leave me alone even if I could make her understand the request; I have noticed over the past couple of days that she likes to have things the way she wants them and does not quietly accept things she does not want—the flaws of being the only princess of the country and the most loved and revered of all humans I have ever met. And so, struck by a moment of mildly vindictive impertinence, I smile at her and gesture wildly without any intended meaning for several seconds. Isabella watches, her eyebrows pulled together in concentration, then confusion, as she fights to understand what I am trying to tell her. Then, after I am finished, she laughs. "You're sassy, aren't you?" she says. "I bet you're the bane of the servants back home."

I shrug, but thinking of Katrina compels me to smile and nod as well, a grudging admiration toward her building somewhere inside of me. Isabella takes my obvious aversion to her with humor so natural that it is impossible for me to hate her the way I want to. It is too easy to forget the fact that, because of her, I am going to die in less than a week. She is very easy to like, and a part of me does hate her for it. If I could only hate her, the entire situation would be so much easier to handle; the fact that we are becoming friends of sorts, despite the mutual strain caused by us both loving the same man, makes the idea of death that much more painful. Aside from my sisters and Edmund, I have never had a friend before, and a part of me curses Isabella for being the one who would change that.

"Edmund says the Honnaleian castle sits on a cliff that comes straight up from the ocean," Isabella says, interrupting my thoughts. I nod. "Is it very beautiful?" I sigh and nod again, more slowly, an empty hollowness creeping into my stomach as I think about it. Home. A thousand memories dance behind my mind, sensory and brilliant: jagged black cliffs rising up from the impossibly-vast expanse of the sea, the view of the endless horizon from the windows in the dining hall, the balcony overlooking the small pond and half-wild garden, the golden staircase shining silver in the moonlight, the white tiled dance floor covered in dozens of elegant, brilliantly-clothed courtiers whirling to the pulsing rhythm of drums and harps. I nearly choke on longing.

Isabella watches me, measuring my change of expression with her discerning eye. "You don't travel much, do you? You're here six days, and you're already homesick." Her words would have been scathing had they not been said so gently. I shrug, fighting to smooth away the pain and desire that had broken onto my face. Isabella lays one hand on my shoulder. "I know, Grace, really I do. I miss my beach at St. Melania's already, and I've been away from it only a week." Her eyes wander across the courtyard, over the castle. "This place—it's never been home. My father sent me away when I was six. That beach at St. Melania's really was the only place that felt even a little like home, like…happiness and safety. And now I guess I'll never see it again." Her roaming gaze falls on me, and she smiles wistfully, her voice turning inward, as though she is no longer talking to me. "I'm off to bigger and scarier adventures, I suppose. It's funny, when I think about life at St. Melania's, all I remember is wanting something to happen, something to break up the monotony of the routine. That's probably half the reason I fell so in love with Edmund—his presence was something different, something new. Not that I don't love him for himself," she interrupts herself hastily, her eyes refocusing on me, "but you have to understand: I was there thirteen years, doing the exact same thing day in and day out, never varying from routine for all that time, except for the week that Edmund was there. And life was…" She looks away from me, toward the far courtyard wall. "…Better. Different. _New._"

My grudging admiration blossoms into full-fledged understanding, and this new feeling surprises me. All this time, I had been certain that the Madirite princess, all the grace and beauty and loveliness the world of air has to offer, and I, the pale, mute, strange little mermaid with legs, could have nothing in common. But loving Edmund is our common thread. I bite my lip and stare down at my skirt.

I do not see Isabella turn back toward me, but I can feel the penetrating heat of her eyes on my head. "It was like that for you, too, wasn't it?" Her voice is quiet, gentle.

I know that it would do no good to lie to her—she understands much too well. I nod, concentrating very hard on rubbing at an imagined speck of dirt along my hem.

"I'm sorry, Grace. I hope—I mean, I don't want to drive you away from your home, just because…but I would understand if you couldn't stay, after."

I nod again, more slowly. No matter how much I may want to go home and continue to be a part of my human family, no matter how quickly my antipathy toward the Madirite princess may be fading, I could not stay. I will die long before the _Dolphin_ even reaches Honnaleigh.

"Still," Isabella adds, whispering so quietly that even my sharp ears have to strain to hear her, "if you wanted to stay…I know Edmund would want you to—he really is fond of you, Grace, whatever you might think—and…" She reaches toward me and cups my chin in one hand, lifting my head until I meet her eyes. "I've never had a friend before. I mean, not a real one; the nuns at St. Melania's were nice, and they treated me well, and I was closely acquaintanced with a few of them. But the friendships I made there aren't really the sorts that last, because the nuns are…well, they have only one thing on their minds, and that is pledging their souls to the Lord and His doctrines, and they just couldn't be bothered with anything else, like…me." She laughs and drops her hand. "So you're really the first friend I've ever actually had. We are friends, aren't we, Grace?" And the half-fearful look that crosses her face as she asks that question makes me laugh. I smile at her and hold out my hand, which she takes in both of hers with a brilliant returning smile, and we laugh together at our little girl silliness, our hands clasped tightly in each others'.

Despite everything, Isabella and I have indeed become friends.


	29. The Kiss

Time continues to move forward toward the day of the wedding and the inevitable morning after. As the day comes closer, the humans become busier and busier; Isabella begins to miss meals, and Edmund vanishes completely. Alone and bored, I take to wandering the halls and all hours of the day and night, to the often-expressed disapproval of the Madirite servants. The morning of the day before the wedding, I stumble across the Madirite castle library—a room twice the size of the Honnaleian library but containing only about half the number of books. Instead, maps and charts occupy the shelves in great dusty heaps. I spend several hours poking through the maps. They are beautiful, made on vast sheets of yellow-brown paper, with country borders drawn in browning black ink and lakes and rivers colored in faded blue. Loopy letters assign names to every town and geological feature, fantastic, impossible names like Tiamatmiar'ah and Nayals. Every inch of the maps not containing such map items is filled in with detailed illustrations of creatures: dragons with spread wings, fire blazing from their mouths; rearing unicorns with horns as long as their bodies and beards that tickle their hooves; a mermaid, sprawled across a rock, combing out her waist-long hair. I spend a long time admiring the illustrations, my fingers itching for a pencil and a piece of paper so that I might try to imitate such beauty. It is the first real desire I have had in days, and the intensity with which I want draw surprises me.

But, eventually, a servant comes across me and bustles me out of the library with the declaration that I should not be wasting time in here when there are so many more important things to do before tomorrow, and I take to the halls once again. It is probably past midday, and I think I may have missed a meal, but I am not hungry and so do not care.

Later in the afternoon—how much later, I cannot tell; time seems to have lost all meaning—I find myself looking out one of those T-shaped slits in the wall of the deserted dining hall. Most of the humans in the castle are seeing to Isabella's wedding dress. Warm sunlight streams down from the sky, kissing the summer world with golden light and casting dark shadows of the Madirite castle across the courtyard. Not even the smallest shaft of the bright sun shines into the castle itself; the dining hall is lit only by its long rows of smoky torches. Not even the summer sun can penetrate these thick grey walls. I long to be home.

Hurried footsteps echo against the room's high ceiling. I glance back to see who is in such a rush, then look away quickly. It is Edmund.

I expect him to continue to the end of the room without a pause and leave without even noticing me. Therefore, I am surprised to hear his footsteps stop for a moment, then start again more deliberately. My heart hammers as I realize that he is coming toward me.

"Good afternoon, Grace," Edmund greets me pleasantly from behind. I turn halfway around and try to smile. When my attempt fails, I look away from him and back out toward the courtyard. My head feels suddenly very heavy, and I realize that I am exhausted, too tired to even feel the slice of pain that shoots through me with the thought that this might very well be the last time he will ever speak to me. I press my forehead into the wall left of the little hole, using the stone's stability to hold myself upright.

Edmund looks out the slit in the wall. "What are you looking at?" His voice is strangely formal, polite and detached like a courtier's. If I did not know better, I might think we were strangers.

I rock back from the wall and shake my head. _Nothing in particular,_ I reply, my words just as stiff as his were. _I was just thinking that this is a very poor attempt at a window._

Edmund frowns briefly, apparently noticing how awkward we both look, then, with a tight smile that is clearly forced, tries again. "It's an archer's slit, actually. This castle is more of a fortress than a home." His attempt at casual conversation does not work; his voice still comes out sounding odd, stiff and scrupulously polite.

To my relief, the forced smile drops from his face. I do not like to see him frown, but at least the expression is a natural one, not one he has to consciously create. I wish I could know what he is thinking, as he seems to be hunting desperately for something else to say. All he comes up with is, "I don't know how the Madirites tolerate it." As the words come out, still too stiff, he scowls, his forehead knotting up as it does when he is very angry, though somehow I understand that he is not angry at me, but rather at the rigid sound of his voice.

His awkward, unsuccessful attempts at normal conversation cut through my exhaustion. I straighten, looking up until I am meeting his eyes, and give my best effort at lightening the stilted weight of our words. _Practice, I suppose, _I reply. It is a weak joke, but Edmund smiles, more easily this time.

"Maybe." As he continues to stare out the archer's slit, the smile fades from his face. "Are you angry with me?" he asks after a few silent moments, and, suddenly, his voice sounds normal again, with all the warmth that I am used to and have missed so badly. "For neglecting you all week, I mean," he adds when I shake my head, my expression confused.

I shake my head again. _You have been busy,_ I reason. Not for another one hundred years of life would I want him to know just how much his neglecting me has hurt.

His lips turned downward in the beginnings of yet another frown. "That's not an excuse. It's a reason, maybe, but not an excuse. I don't know. Maybe it's just this castle getting to my head, but you've seemed…depressed these past few days."

_Why are you not with everyone else, seeing to Isabella's wedding dress?_ I ask hastily.

My effort to change the subject is successful: whatever wave of thought Edmund had been on is broken up entirely. He grins. "It's bad luck for the groom to see the dress before the wedding."

Bad luck. The phrase sounds familiar. Captain Davis had pronounced me doomed to bad luck when I refused his knife. He said I would bring bad luck down on myself. It strikes me as strange, as I look at Edmund's bright grin, that one person's bad luck can actually be another person's fondest wish, and stranger still that both bad luck and fond wish could come from the same person.

Isabella. My mind churns over the name. The small, discontented part of me cries out against her, demands with all its might that I hate her for being the Madirite princess, for living on that deserted little island, for simply _existing_. But I cannot hate Isabella—Isabella, who has never been anything but understanding, who has overlooked the way a part of me hates her and fought to be my friend in spite of it. She is a good person, as good as humans come, and she has just as much right to exist as I do—more, even, because I am something unnatural, a fish with legs, and I have nothing more to offer this world or anyone in it.

My expression must have changed, twisted, because Edmund stops grinning and looks at me with sudden concern. "Grace, are you all right?"

My head is throbbing, and my feet hurt. I have spent the past week watching my life crumble away like a decrepit building, taking with it everything I have ever wanted and tried to be. Grace is dying. I look away, trying to avoid the question. I am not all right, but I cannot foist my unhappiness onto Edmund. Not when he is as happy as I have ever seen him.

But Edmund is persistent. He turns my face back toward him and asks again, "What's wrong?"

It is the touch, the physical contact between his hand and my jaw, that breaks down my resistance. I exhale all my air in one shaking, gusty breath and almost forget to inhale again. _I want to go home,_ I admit. The words look as much like a whimper as they feel.

Edmund kisses me lightly on the forehead. A shudder runs through me. Over the past few days, I had tried to block out how much I have missed his affection, even if it is casual, even if he sees me and cares for me only as a sister. I have missed him so much. It is good to be reminded _how_ much. "We're going home tomorrow," he says into my hair before pulling back and smiling. "You'll be all right for just one more day."

I cannot honestly tell what happens to me at this moment, whether it is the thought that I may never have another chance to be this close to Edmund again or it is seeing that smile that I love so much. I do not know where it comes from, but suddenly it is there, a wild impulse clouding my thoughts, and I obey it without thinking.

Not considering the possible repercussions, hardly even cognizant of my movement at all, I stretch up—Edmund is almost a full head taller than I am—and press my lips to his.

For a single second, one single amazing second, Edmund leans into my kiss, his hand where it still rests against my cheek tightening a little, as though to hold me where I am. Warmth pours through me, from the top of my head to the tips of my aching toes. Humans are so wonderfully warm. For one glorious moment, time freezes, and possibilities parade before me. A wedding where I am not just holding the bride's dress off the ground, where I am the bride. A soul. Me, completely human at last. And Edmund, finally loving me the way I love him. Waking up every morning at his side without any of the uncertainty and embarrassment that had shunted away contentment that morning in the library. Loving him and knowing that he loved me in return, fully and irrevocably. For a single moment, this forever dances in front of my closed eyes.

Then time resumes its normal course forward, and Edmund jerks away from me. He gapes at me, wide-eyed and shocked. "Grace…?" he mumbles. "What was _that_?!"

I do not answer. My head is still spinning too dizzily for clear thought. I lean back into the stone wall, fighting to regain balance from my trembling legs. Everything in me is trembling like a leaf in a hard wind, fear and pleasure blending together until I am almost sick with the combination. It is entirely unfair that something so wrong could feel so wonderful. And I realize now, noticing the way Edmund's eyebrows are pinched together with anger and confusion, that what I had done was very, very wrong. Edmund is all but actually married. Had we been in the sea, Isabella would be well within her rights to demand me executed.

And yet, I cannot feel sorry for having kissed him. I have nothing else to lose: in one day, Edmund will be married; in less than two days, I will be nothing but foam on the sea. If I am going to dissolve, I might as well do it carrying a memory that I would want to have, something to cling to as I finally begin to break up and float away.

It is all so terribly unfair. I do not want to die, not now, not when I have finally seen the way life could be for me. Isabella does not intend to drive me from my home; far from it, she has asked me to stay even after the wedding. I want to. I want to go home. I want to lie in my bed and be cheeky to Katrina and climb to the tops of those frighteningly-high cliffs. There are still so many things I have not done: I have never held a human baby, I have not seen the views from the top of any but one of the cliffs. I have never ridden on a sled or seen a sorcerer. Heart and soul be damned—I will gladly be Edmund's friend, and Isabella's, too, if that is the way he says it should be. I want to _live_.

Edmund continues to stare, but the confusion is tightening to anxiety. "I love Isabella," he tells me quietly, "but I don't want that to be a wedge that comes between us, either. Honnaleigh is a small country, but it's big enough for both of you." His voice drops to a whisper that sounds almost pleading. "Grace, don't make me have to choose." A sharp note of pain works into his tone.

I look up from examining the stones beneath my slipper. _Maybe…_ I start. The word is difficult to understand through my shaking fingers. I suck a deep breath and try again. _Maybe you have no choice anymore. Maybe that is just the way things are._ I shove myself away from the support of the wall and start to walk from the room.

Edmund grabs my arm before I have made it two steps away from him and hauls me roughly around to face him again. His fingers are shaking harder than mine are. "No." I have never before heard him sound so absolute or so panicked. "No, I refuse to believe that I have to lose you to this. We can make this work, Grace, I know we can. But I need you to want it to work."

If I had tears, they would certainly be pouring from my eyes now. I had thought I had known agony, that nothing could be more painful than leaving my sisters without so much as a goodbye or watching Edmund and Isabella, wild with joy, kiss each other. But nothing has ever compared to this, knowing that, despite everything, Edmund still wants me in his life, and knowing that no matter how much either of us may against it, I will be forever leaving his life in less than two days. What I would not give to be able to smile at him now and tell him that I will not go anywhere he does not want me to go! But I do not have the strength to lie anymore. Edmund deserves so much better than me, a dying half-fish who cannot even say to him how much I love him.

I reach across my body with my free hand and run my fingers over his knuckles until he releases his grip on left arm. With a small sigh that is more pain than anything, I drop my face against the back of his hand, for one moment letting myself absorb the warmth of his skin. Then, as gently as I can manage, I touch my lips to his fingers, just once.

When I look up again, Edmund is staring at me, pain written in every line on his face. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but I drop his hand and press my fingertips against his lips. I cannot stand even the thought of more conversation.

The silence lengthens, ringing with the memory of the kiss; whatever thoughts are going through Edmund's mind are making some resolve in him waver, and, for a single second, I half-imagine he might throw his arms around me and kiss me. I jerk away from him and rush from the room before either of us can do something regrettable. My sharp ears hear him call after me, but I do not turn around.


	30. Reflection

Rest is impossible tonight. My thoughts are a chaotic jumble of images and emotions, and I spend the night skulking the corridors of the Madirite castle. A couple of servants find me at dawn trying to watch the sunrise through one of those stupid archer's slits and bustle me back to the room. I lay on the bed, exhausted and sick to my stomach. My palms are cold and clammy, and my whole body prickles with dread.

Today is the day.

Servants enter the room only a few minutes after daybreak and herd me into a different room closer to Isabella's. Even so early in the morning, the place buzzes with activity. Three older females, who I presume are Isabella's bridesmaids, stand near the middle of the room, eyes heavy with sleep, while a half-dozen servants scurry around each one. "I don't see why we have to get up so early," one complains.

"Oh, Hannah, just think of it as another normal morning," another replies.

Hannah shakes her head. "This is supposed to be a vacation."

The third, obviously as unfamiliar with the other two as I am, only yawns.

My own half-dozen servant army starts to work on me. I am used to being dressed, but only by one person who can understand when I tell her that she is pulling too hard. Not that Katrina ever listens to me, but I know she at least understands. Now, however, I am being pushed around, dressed, and laced up in six different places at once. The dress is lovely, light blue silk that feels as smooth as water against my skin, but the pinching and prodding of the servants is horrible. And being dressed to their satisfaction is only the first half of the day's dressing ritual. Once I am clothed, they turn to my hair. The servants braid small locks of it that they then twist around my head. They wrap the ends around hot iron rods, making the whole room reek of burning hair, to give curl to the loose ends. Never for a minute do they stop exclaiming about the length and color.

But the worst part by far is the shoes they tell me to wear: stiff, too-tight shoes with a high, narrow heel that forces all my weight onto my toes. I nearly scream when a servant shoves one onto my already-burning foot, and I accidentally kick her in the shoulder as I shake it off. _No,_ I tell them, scowling. _I do not mind the dress or the hairstyle, but I refuse to wear the shoes._

They do not understand either my signs or my resistance. "These are the nicest shoes we have, and they will match your dress perfectly," one servant wheedles, taking my foot in one hand and a shoe in the other. I step down hard but regrettably miss stomping on her fingers. The three other women in the room and their corresponding servant hoards watch the drama with amusement. "I suppose she doesn't like heels," the one called Hannah whispers to her friend. Embarrassment heats up my face, but I ignore it. I would rather that all the Madirites in the castle laugh at me all day than have to wear the shoes.

Eventually, however, the servants have their way. After several minutes of silent arguing, one servant—the girl I had accidentally kicked—looks up from her position at my feet and tells me, her voice a snap, "Look here, miss, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. But, either way you choose, you will wear the shoes. Breakfast will be cleaned up in ten minutes. If you want something to eat today, you had better cooperate."

I scowl, angry, wishing my stomach did not rumble audibly at her words, and, trying not to wince, I slide my feet into the horrid shoes. Not fair, a little voice in my head complains. They use my complaining stomach as a weapon against me, and they win.

I emerge from the room fully dressed and looking prepared for a royal wedding. The blue silk dress ripples down to my ankles; the soft swish of the cloth against my legs is the only thing pleasant about the morning. My hair feels strange, like it is somehow not mine, bouncing at the ends from the unnatural curls burned into it. The sharp heels of the shoes click against the stone corridor, and, with each click, pain like stepping on knives jolts up my legs. It takes every ounce of strength and freewill I have to hold my head up and move forward.

Breakfast is abbreviated and unpopulated like no meal I have ever seen—only a few courtiers nibble on the small selection of fruit and bread laid out. I rip into a hunk of bread myself, finding inexplicable relief in tearing it to bits. My thoughts are perched on the edge of a dark pit similar to the abyss near the sea witch's lair, and I struggle not to think, trying very hard to concentrate on the taste and texture of the still-warm bread in my hands. But still my thoughts revolve around what is coming for me. Death. Nothingness. Annihilation.

Isabella summons me, through the medium of a servant, to her after breakfast, and I drag myself behind the servant sent to fetch me. This is a happy day, I remind myself after the servant, having gestured toward Isabella's bedroom door, has disappeared around the next corner. Perhaps not a happy day for me, but it is for my friends, and I stand a moment at the door fighting to find enough cheerfulness to get me through the rest of the day. I will not be a black mark on Edmund and Isabella's bright day.

Isabella opens the door the moment after I knock. "Oh, good," she says when she sees me. A frantic blush has colored her cheeks a bright, almost alarming, shade of red. "Come in, come in."

I had been in Isabella's bedroom just one week ago, but, stepping into it now, it is difficult for me to believe that this is the same room; only the thick carpet, where it is visible between scattered books and pieces of clothing, is unchanged. The tapestries have been taken from the walls and now lie rolled up near the door. The bed has been stripped of blankets, and the soft blue canopy is gone. The dresser drawers are all opened, with stockings and sleeves hanging over the drawer edges like tongues protruding from mouths; the vanity is gone, and the full-length mirror lies propped against the wall by the window.

"Forgive the mess," Isabella requests, noticing my gaze sweeping around the room in surprise. "Packing and…well, I never did the clean-room thing very well anyway." She gestures me forward again and looks me over once, smiling. "You look amazing. Blue is definitely your color."

I shrug and attempt to recount the difficulties of being dressed without resorting to any actual signs. Isabella chuckles when I recreate the struggle over the shoes, then turns toward the dresser. "I'll be honest, Grace, I was hoping you could help me."

I raise one eyebrow, curious.

"Which do you like better, the pearls or the diamonds?" Isabella turns toward me again and holds two necklaces, one in each hand, to her neck. I consider each one, then gesture to the diamonds, thinking that they would complement the faint sparkle in her dress particularly well. She sets the pearls aside. "Would you?" she asks, holding out the necklace. I accept the thin string of glittering jewels and fasten them around her neck.

Isabella moves toward her full-length mirror and inspects herself carefully. Her beauty is stunning, almost too glorious to be real. Her dress is simple, white and satiny, with just a hint of sparkling embroidery along the edge of the deep, lacey neckline. Cloth trails after her for another whole length—the train I am to carry, I guess. The veil is made of layers of gauzy white material and is pinned to the top of her curls with a small jeweled comb. A single sapphire, the same color as her eyes and, I notice suddenly, my dress, winking from the comb is the only speck of color she wears.

Someone raps on her closed door. "Isabella," Queen Belinda calls, "hurry up! The carriage is waiting!"

Isabella moves away from the mirror. "Well, this is as good as I'm ever going to get," she says, her voice tight.

_You are beautiful,_ I admit, feeling the admiration quite clearly on my face.

"Thank you." Isabella exhales loudly; her smile twists into an uncertain sort of grimace. "I'm getting married." The thought appears to unnerve her.

Humans are the strangest creatures to ever exist. But Isabella's sudden anxiety turns a tiny piece of my mind away from my own fear, and the desire to comfort her makes me open my arms and smile.

Isabella smiles in return and steps into my outstretched arms, and we clutch each other fiercely for a moment, each of us taking comfort in the other's presence. Our fears may be as different as could be, but I can sense that Isabella is nearly as afraid as I am today, and that fact is strangely comforting. At least I am not alone.

_"__Isabella!"_ Queen Belinda sounds almost angry.

Isabella pulls away from me; her smile is weak. "Thanks. I'll see you at the church in a little while." She turns and hurries out the door, her wedding dress swooshing as she walks.

I am about to follow her when I am stopped by motion over my left shoulder. When I turn to see what it is, though, I find only my reflection in the mirror, and I look away quickly. More than any other human object I have encountered, it is the mirror that frightens me most. It brings back memories eight years old, memories of my father's castle being ripped apart by arguing factions of courtiers, of the silver-encased reflective glass—a small hand mirror—that had caused violence and injury in my father's court. At the edge of my father's kingdom, I had looked into the little mirror and had hated what I saw there. My reflection has changed over the past eight years, but I still fear hating what I might see and have never looked at myself since that day.

But today is special; I am dressed in a lot of finery, in a particularly nice dress with particularly well-done hair, and I might as well see how it looks. I do not admit to the more depressing reason for wanting to see myself, as I am still fighting to not think about tomorrow's dawn if I can avoid it. Hesitant, afraid of what I might see, I raise my eyes toward Isabella's decorative full-length mirror. My reflection stares back at me.

It is not an ugly reflection. My silvery skin stands in striking contrast to my deep blue eyes and black brows. The long, light blue dress brings out the sheen in my silver-tipped hair. The shoes, excruciating but well-matched to the dress, add a little height to my stature. I step closer. The image grows. There is a lot of pain on my face, more than I had thought. The thin lines of a frown are etched between my eyes, lines I had not known were there. I rub my forehead, trace my fingers along the curve of my eyebrows, trying to relax the lines. They fade but do not disappear entirely. I wish there were some way to massage the pain from my eyes. If I have looked like this all week, it is no wonder that Edmund had thought me depressed. I am, and I have less control over showing it than I had thought.

I sigh and trail my fingertips down my cheek and across my bottom lip. My entire body burns thinking of Edmund. I close my eyes, letting the memory of his lips on mine linger behind my lids. If I can just keep that memory there, the warmth that had poured through me in the moment that he had kissed me back, I might be able to pull myself through until tomorrow's sunrise.


	31. The Wedding

The church in Port Anne is only twenty minutes from the Madirite harbor where the _Dolphin_ is anchored, which makes it some hours from the castle. The carriage trip is bumpy and long. I sit wedged between the three bridesmaids, Roberta, Hannah, and Jillian. The first two look vaguely familiar, and I struggle to decide why for most of the ride. We are nearly to the church when I remember that Roberta and Hannah were the other two females of the threesome that had found Edmund the morning after his shipwreck. Jillian, I deduce from the snippets of conversation I actually listen to, is a Madirite courtier who knew Isabella before she was shipped off to the convent but has not spoken to her since.

The early start to the day means that the caravan of carriages pulls up to the church doors in the early afternoon. The church is simple, old, and elegant, painted a faded white. Three steps of pink-grey rock, broken into two halves by a thin fissure and bordered by a simple wrought-iron railing, leads up to wide double doors. The wood of the doors is weathered to a dark chocolate color and neatly splintered into careful disarray, as though the humans who take care of this church had aged the door intentionally. A single spire—a bell tower—topped with the silhouette of a cross perches above the slate roof. Large plots of blooming flowers flank the steps. The flowers are white with light pink edges, bulbous, fragrant, and unfamiliar. I inhale their scent and rub one soft petal between my fingers.

Roberta, leaning against the railing as she waits for Isabella's arrival, notices my interest in the flowers. "Ah, the peonies have bloomed just in time," she comments to me. "They're Isabella's favorite, you know, and Mother Agnes has a whole garden of them back in the convent."

Isabella's carriage stops in front of the church with hardly a moment to spare, and Isabella tumbles out the door in a cloud of white fabric. "Quickly, quickly," King Ferdinand urges, ushering his daughter up the steps and setting the bridesmaids and me to dusting off and straightening up her dress.

Organ music rings from inside the church. The bridesmaids stop fussing with Isabella's gown and veil to enter the church at a placid walk, one by one. I brush a few specks of dirt off the bottom edge of Isabella's gown and lift her train. My stomach feels odd, hollow and aching. The music changes to the bridal procession. Isabella threads her arm through her father's, and the two queens unlatch the wrought-iron door handles. Isabella and King Ferdinand stride into the church, each of their steps measured, slow, and perfectly in time with the music; I follow, my fingers clenched around the hem of her train.

The interior of the church is as beautiful as the exterior. A long strip of light blue carpet cuts down the middle of the wooden floor. Benches the same color as the door—though not as splintered, for which I am sure the humans using them are glad—run from the carpet to the faded-white walls on either side, all facing forward toward the raised platform that I guess is the alter. Three huge windows are cut into both of the side walls, but none of them let in much light, and it takes my slow mind an embarrassingly long moment to realize why: they are made of colored glass that swoops and swirls in designs so intricate that I could study them for hours and still not see every change of pattern and color.

Isabella reaches the end of the isle eventually, even at her ridiculously slow pace. Edmund meets her at the end of her walk, takes her hand from her father's arm, and kneels with her in front of a man in a tall hat and white robe—a priest. I stand with the end of Isabella's gown still in my hands, feeling awkward, wishing I could have disappeared from the isle with King Ferdinand. But, on the ride here, Jillian had given me explicit instructions to remain standing throughout the ceremony, telling me that it was the worst sort of luck to be had in Madirae if the bride's train touches the ground during her wedding ceremony. It seems a strange superstition to me, but I obey the instructions without protest, trying to remain inconspicuous. No one is paying any attention to me anyway; all eyes are on the couple at the alter. Isabella's and Edmund's gazes are riveted on each other, and neither of them looks away as the priest begins to speak.

The ceremony is spoken mostly by the priest, and the vows given are little more than recitations by the priest that Isabella and Edmund both individually agree to. Everything feels oddly close, unusually vivid, and my focus is at odds with the tedium of the actual ceremony. My attention is split several different ways by dozens of little details—the light coming through the colored windows painting splashes of blue and green and red across Isabella's white dress; the priest's voice droning, deep and monotone, as though trying to soothe his audience to sleep; Edmund, heart-stoppingly beautiful in a deep blue suit trimmed with looped golden braids, smiling his happiest smile. My eyes linger on him the longest, my teeth clenched against the cry of protest in my throat. I have already caused enough damage; I refuse to cause any more.

"Ladies and gentlemen of Honnaleigh and Madirae, our countries are now joined," the priest announces. He then lays his hands on the couple still kneeling before him. "May your wisdom and love bless each other and us all. My children, be happy and prosperous."

Edmund and Isabella, now officially married, stand and turn to face the spectators, both beaming. The other humans applaud and cheer. I smile until my cheeks hurt with the pressure I force into them. For a brief moment, Edmund meets my eyes, and his smile slips a little. He turns away before I do, back to his new wife, and kisses her.

The Honnaleian courtiers and servants pile into carriages upon exiting the church. I ride with the queen, relieved to be out of the bridesmaids' company and to have a few minutes free of the horrible high-heeled shoes, glad to be allowed a few minutes alone with her, the magnificent woman who has in so many ways been a surrogate mother to me. The thought of saying goodbye to her makes me hurt all over, and this is not the most difficult goodbye I will have to face tonight. I rest my throbbing head against the queen's shoulder; she slips her arm across my shoulders and begins to idly twist a strand of my hair around her fingers.

I let my goodbye go unstated during the ride to the harbor, unwilling to bring pain into this moment of peace. But, when the _Dolphin_ and the huge crowd surrounding it finally come into view, I know that my time is up. _Thank you,_ I tell her, my signs sloppy from haste. "Thank you" is easier than "goodbye" to force out.

"You're welcome," she replies. A confused frown crosses her face, but she does not ask, considerate as always.

The carriage halts, and servants bustle people and boxes from the carts to the _Dolphin_. On the wharf, Isabella is bidding her parents farewell. "Visit us soon, both of you," Queen Belinda commands, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Edmund and Isabella promise to do so. Everyone sailing to Honnaleigh boards the _Dolphin_, and, to the loud roar of thousands of cheering humans, the ship casts off from the harbor.


	32. Goodbyes

The party begins just as the sun dips below the western horizon. Colored lanterns illuminate the deck; streamers flutter from the rigging. It is not long before a few humans grab instruments and strike up some of their wild dances. I hide in the shadows, my thoughts revolving sluggishly around the fact that this is the last night of my life. Come dawn, I will be no more than the foamy crest on one of the waves over which the _Dolphin_ is sailing. An eternal soulless night, without thought or dream or imagining, yawns before me, waiting to swallow me whole. I shudder.

Overhead, fireworks blaze. Little starry sparks rain down on the surface while humans turn their insane circles on deck. The scene tickles my memory, reminds me of something I have seen before, but my mind is churning so slowly that it takes a few moments to recall the memory properly.

The night of my eighteenth Hatching Day, I had clung to the side of a human ship and watched many of these same humans dance these same wild dances under the lights of these same sorts of colored lanterns and blazing fireworks. I find myself remembering my first glimpse of Edmund, seen under a similar festive circumstance, how the world had changed so suddenly and completely for me that night. I remember how impossible my predicament had felt—a mermaid in love with a human—and how I had decided that I would not let impossible stand in my way. But it was impossible. It was never anything but impossible.

I tear my eyes from the humans to stare down at the water that rushes, too quickly to be real, beneath the ship. In the shadows created by the colored lanterns and booming fireworks, the water is inky black and dangerous. Had there really been a time when I swam beneath the surface and longed for nothing more than a chance to see a human? I stare hard at the surface, convinced that I will see something to remind me of that life if I just look hard enough.

_Aria, the little mermaid who forsook her family and home. You will return come day._ A voice—familiar despite the fact that it has been a long time since I last heard it—pounds against my temples.

I close my eyes. _Yes,_ I think back at it, _I suppose you are right._

The _Dolphin_ bobs over a particularly-large wave; the slap of water against the hull sounds like malicious laughter.

"You didn't have to stand all the way through the ceremony." Edmund's voice cuts through the laughter echoing in my head and startles me. I turn; he is standing, smiling a little uncertainly, just inside my quiet ring of shadow.

_Jillian told me that it was bad luck for a Madirite bride's train to touch the ground,_ I explain. My attempt at a smile does not fail as thoroughly as I feared it might.

Edmund steps up next to me and leans on the ship's railing. "Madirites and their crazy superstitions," he whispers, shaking his head.

I glance pointedly at the small cut I can just see on his right index finger. _Madirites have nothing on Honnaleians for crazy superstitions,_ I tease.

He looks down, brushes his right thumb across the thin red line of the cut, then smiles at me again, more sincerely than before. "You're probably right. Well, we humans can't help ourselves, can we?"

_Obviously not._

Silence stretches out between us; I stare down at my hands as Edmund stares at me—I cannot see it, but I can feel the weight of his gaze on my temple. He is the first to interrupt the silence by asking, his voice quieter than before, "Grace, will you dance with me?"

My stomach twists. I would like nothing more than to dance with Edmund, but the thought of being that close, of drawing out our goodbye like that, very nearly makes me nauseous. _You should be dancing with your wife, _I protest, uneasy, half of me hoping against the other half that he will take my hint and leave me alone.

"She's taking some time to make new friends," Edmund replies, nodding toward Isabella, trapped in the middle of a clump of Honnaleian courtiers. "And…I want to dance with you." He holds out one hand; I shrink away from it. It feels like it might kill me to refuse my last chance to be near him, but I know, know with all of my most innate mermaid instincts, that it will be worse for both of us if I allow myself to take this last chance. "Please?" he asks, pleading.

I wrap my arms around myself and slide half-a-step away from him, shaking my head. My expression is crumpling under the inexorable force of my grief, and I turn away from him and let my chin fall against my chest. My hair, still pulled away from my face in the braids and curls I had worn for the wedding, does not fall over my shoulders like it normally does when I am seeking a little privacy, and I feel unusually vulnerable without the protection to which I have long been accustomed.

But Edmund does not give up quite so easily. After a long moment of silence, he takes me by the elbow and tugs me away from the railing of the ship and into the circle of light created by the colored lanterns. The music is slower now than it was before, quiet and plaintive, a single flute trilling a high, mournful tune against the gentle beats of the drums. Edmund holds my hand and leads me through the steps of one of the more practiced dances I know, and, after a few minutes, the warmth of his skin and the familiar movements of the dance lull me into a relaxed state that almost touches on peace. If only it could last, I think. If only the sun would never rise again.

We dance in silence. At one point, I close my eyes and allow my forehead a single moment to rest against his shoulder, allow myself a single moment to replay the might-have-beens that had flashed before my eyes the day before. Then, keenly aware that there are a dozen or more loose-tongued courtiers watching us, I pick my head up and concentrate on my feet again.

Eventually, the song ends, and Edmund follows me back to my former place along the shadowed rail. He leans against it and folds his hands, staring out over the water. "I am sorry," he says after a minute. His eyes never leave the horizon. "I know I've spent the last year doing everything in my power to give you the wrong impression about…well, everything. But you must…" He trails off, his eyebrows coming together as hesitates over his words and then decides against them altogether. "I never set out to hurt you, and I am sorry that I did anyway."

The hollowness in my stomach tightens from the regret that burns through his words. Unsure of how to respond, I settle for watching the waves rush under the ship, the sound a gleeful cackle in my ears. _You regret your life on land,_ the sea laughs. _Your whole relationship with Prince Edmund was built on lies, lies you told him, lies you told yourself. You are not human. You never were. You never will be._

I bite my lip and stare down at the surface of the water, unable to deny the truth of those statements. I have lied, lied to protect myself and my secrets. But those seem foolish, worthless reasons now.

"What's wrong?" He looks at me now with concern.

The part of me that has been rigorously trained to mask all my actual feelings tries to make me shake my head and smile as though nothing were wrong. I ignore the impulse. I will tell him the truth. It will come far too late and may only serve to make him distrust me, but at least he will know. _I never meant to cause trouble._ My fingers stumble, but the words come off of them as reasonably understandable signs. _And I am sorry for all the times I lied to you._

"Lied to me?" Edmund repeats, frowning. "When did you do that?"

A sliver of the moon suddenly breaks free of the thin clouds and shines against the black water. I stare down at its reflection and force my hands to move. _Do you remember the story I gave you for your birthday?_

"Sure. The animated one about the mermaid." His voice is guarded, careful, unsure of where I am going with this wave of thought but curious about what I might tell him.

_You thought the mermaid was my mother,_ I guess.

Edmund's frown deepens. "Well, I had assumed it was, yes."

I shake my head slowly. _My mother hatched and died as a merwoman. She was never a human. She married the Sea King and had six daughters. The youngest one, Aria, rescued a…_ My hands falter. I glance quickly at Edmund, then away again just as quickly. He watches me, his expression impatient with curiosity. I draw another deep breath and continue. _…A human prince from drowning the night of her eighteenth Hatching Day. She could not bear life in the sea after that night and traded her voice, her tongue, for legs so that she could have a chance at winning his heart._ I smile shakily. _She answers to the name Grace now._

Edmund stares at me, shock warring fiercely with disbelief. "You…?" he mutters. I duck my head and nod. He turns his attention back on the horizon.

I watch him, wait for him to say something, to accuse me of telling tales or to decide that he believes me, but he only gazes out across the sea, his eyebrows pulled together so tightly that they almost make a single line over his eyes. Though I want to interrupt whatever thoughts he is thinking with more explanations, more reasons and justifications, I dig my fingers into the railing and leave his thoughts alone. He knows now. He may do whatever he wishes with the knowledge.

When, after a minute that seems to stretch across an hour, he looks at me again, the anger and disbelief I had expected to see in his eyes are not there; rather, he is smiling a strange little smile that reminds me of the almost-smug expression he had worn the day in the library when I had admitted my mermaid heritage. Impossible as it may sound, I cannot help but think that he may, in fact, believe me. _Edmund? _I start hesitantly.

"And my aquatic friend in the pond under the balcony? Was that you, too?" I nod. All confusion falls off his face, replaced suddenly with an amazed smile. "And the night you didn't come, the night before you washed up on our steps?"

_That was the night I went to the sea witch._

"I _knew_ it!" Edmund's exclamation, comparatively loud against the quietness of our conversation, makes me jump with surprise. "Well, not the part about the sea witch, exactly, but the rest of it. I _knew_ I recognized your eyes!"

I can't stop the smile that crosses my face. _If you knew all this time, why did you ever let me lie to you?_ I wonder.

"You were afraid to tell me—especially after that scene with my mother in the dining hall"—there is an edge to his voice when he mentions that morning, and I shiver, remembering the courtiers circling me like a pack of hungry sharks, the way they hissed when I would not answer the queen's questions to their satisfaction—"and I didn't want you thinking that I would try to wring you for information the way she did, so I let it go. But I knew."

Isabella flounces up to the railing at that point, and Edmund cuts himself off quickly. "You know what? We should kick all the courtiers out of the castle," she suggests lightly as she steps out of the ring of light created by the glowing lanterns. She had traded her wedding gown for a simpler pale yellow day dress after boarding the ship, and she is positively radiant in it.

Edmund glances at her with a smile. "That's what I've been saying for years," he mutters.

Isabella's eyes flash between her husband and me. "Am I interrupting?" she asks.

I shake my head and pull my hand, which had been reaching unconsciously toward Edmund during our conversation, back to my side. _We were just talking,_ I tell her, then, to Edmund, _I think Katrina will like her._

"I think you're right," he agrees. "She'll give the old servant plenty to complain about."

Isabella laughs with me, so I suppose Edmund has told her a little bit about Katrina. She then slips her arm through his and looks up at him with a girlish smile, commenting on the music still being played. "Why don't you ask me to dance again," she suggests.

Edmund complies. As they turn away from the rail, Isabella reaches out to me and touches my shoulder gently. Edmund meets my eyes and smiles a small version of the oversized grin I love best. Then, whirling to the music, they both sweep back into the lights and leave me still half-hidden by shadows.


	33. Human Love

Until long past midnight, humans onboard the _Dolphin_ sing and dance and shoot off fireworks. I hang back in the shadows, my eyes sometimes drifting over the dancers twirling around the deck, sometimes over the fireworks blazing in the sky. Mostly, though, I watch Edmund, rememorizing his face as he smiles up at the fireworks, listening to the sound of his voice as he talks with the courtiers. The desire to join the humans gnaws at my stomach. But I do not belong amongst this happy crowd of strange and beautiful creatures, humans who sing and laugh and dance.

Eventually, the music and dancing slows, and, their arms entwined, Edmund and Isabella retreat to a private tent at the stern of the ship. The rest of the humans follow their lead soon after, until the deck of the_ Dolphin_ is all but deserted. Only one human standing at the helm remains, half-dozing behind the wheel. The moon sets, and the night is black.

I sit, my bare feet dangling beneath the rail, and press my forehead against the bottom edge of the waist-high crossbeam. I am so tired of feeling afraid of the coming dawn that I wish the sun would hurry, that my death would just come and not drag out the minutes of anticipation any longer, that I could die now, quickly, painlessly, and be spared the agony of watching dawn creep into the sky.

"Aria? Aria, listen to us!"

The voice from the water is hurried and impatient, flickering through my dismal thoughts like a glimmer of hope. Andante. I force my eyes to focus on the surface of the water. All five of my older sisters rise from the sea, pale against the dark water. I smile, my despair suddenly broken up by a brief flash of joy; I had not expected to see them again. I wish I could reach them, could twine arms with them and have them lead me to my father and grandmother one last time.

"All the humans at the port were celebrating their princess's marriage," Harmony tells me softly. They have to swim hard to keep up with the _Dolphin_. "Aria, we know that you are going to die come morning, and we have brought help."

As she speaks, my sisters lift their heads and shoulders from the water. Their hair, once as long as mine, hangs at their chins. Allegro combs her fingers self-consciously through the scraggly ends. "We gave our hair to the sea witch only yesterday for help," she explains once she is settled into the water again.

"You do not have to die now, little sister," Andante says, her voice eager. "You can still come home." When she pauses, I cling to the rail, my heart thrumming. In less desperate times, I thought I could never tolerate being a mermaid again. Yet, now, when the only other option is death, the possibility of being a mermaid once more is a hopeful one. Andante holds out one hand. In her palm is a small silver dagger. "It is simple: all you have to do is pierce the prince's heart."

It takes me half-a-second to understand what she is saying, and when I do, my blood runs cold. I gasp, horrified, and slide without standing away from the edge of the ship, shaking my head to clear the words from my hearing. If that is the only way to survive the dawn, I would rather die.

"Aria! Aria, please, listen to us!" Harmony calls up the ship, her voice anguished. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the sound. "Aria, our little sister. Please listen." I exhale and return to the railing, standing this time, ready to listen. "Aria, we understand that we ask a difficult thing. You have given up much to be close to this human. But he is just a human. He is not worth your life, not if he does not love you. _We_ love you, Aria. _We_ love you, and we want you to come home."

Andante swims toward the ship, and her voice when it comes breaks. "Grandmother is ill. We fear she will die very soon, and all she asks for now is to see you before she does." She stares up at me, her face distorted in grief, her eyes blazing with determination. "For too long you have lived your life for that faithless human. It is time you lived your life for yourself." She stretches her arm toward me, the dagger in her hand. I clutch the railing. The blackness of the night is turning grey.

"Take it," Harmony commands. "Take it, and be quick. Make sure his blood falls on your feet; then they will close up into a tail once more." She glances east, toward the slowly-lightening sky. "Quickly, Aria. Either you or he must die by sunrise."

Andante presses the dagger toward me. "Come home, little sister," she begs. "Please, come back to us."

Slowly, barely aware of the motion, I take the dagger from Andante's hand. My sisters whisper again that they love me and want me back before diving beneath the surface. I stare down at the dagger in my opened palm. The blade is only just longer than my longest finger, but it comes to a deadly point and feels sharp against my skin.

No. No, no, no. I cannot—I will not—do this! I swallow hard and look up. The eastern sky is shot through with dusty pink clouds. The sun is on its way. My stomach convulses as I consider my sisters' words, their sacrifice. A mermaid's hair is a point of pride, and I can imagine how painful it must have been, particularly for Allegro, who treasures her beautiful hair above her every possession, to feel the sea witch's knife shearing off their locks, to see that bone-chilling grin on Dressela's face. What more powerful proof of their love could I ask for? Can I throw away their sacrifice for a human who does not love me?

With the option of surviving this dawn now looking me in the face, surely it would be a terrible thing to cause more sorrow for my family than I have already.

I look down at the dagger again. Someone has to die by sunrise, and I have the power, here in my open hand, to decide who it will be. Fear of death crowds out all my revulsion, all my horror. I close my fingers around the dagger's hilt and turn toward the small tent at the stern.

I slip through the flap of red and gold cloth and am in the tent without being noticed. The inside is cramped and dark, but my eyes are designed for low light, and I am able to see without difficulty. There is little but a thin mattress within the heavy tent cloth. Edmund and Isabella, both soundly asleep, lie on the mattress, she wrapped in his arms with her head against his shoulder, a single white sheet covering most of their naked bodies. My stomach churns. There is no one here who could stop me.

The resolve that led me in here slips as I consider moving my arm. I sink to my knees by his head and run my free left-hand fingers very softly down his cheek, careful not to wake him. What would he think if he were to wake up now and see me, a dagger poised over his chest? I shudder to think of it. I have often thought that I would give everything, my life included, for Edmund, but, now that I am actually facing that choice, I do not know if I could.

The light coming from under the tent is brightening, yet still I hesitate, unsure. Harmony's warning whispers through my head, quietly and without emotion. "Either you or he must die by sunrise."

I touch my lips to Edmund's forehead. His skin is warm on my lips. He sighs gently. "Isabel…" he mumbles, not quite able to finish her name in his sleep.

Isabella. Of course he is dreaming of Isabella; she is the one in his thoughts, his dreams, his heart. No matter how deeply set Edmund was against having to choose between us, he had to. And he chose her.

Harmony's words spin through my head. He is not worth all the pain I have suffered to live in his world. How can he be? He is just a human. Just one…stupid…human.

I rock back on me heels. The light outside the tent is yellow now, the sun just moments away. I close my eyes. Edmund, my lips say without volume, I am so sorry.

My right hand lifts above the mattress. My resolve is firm now. One sharp downward stroke, and I will be a mermaid again. I will survive this dawn.

But my hand pauses in midair. The point of the dagger trembles, and it takes me a moment to realize that it is shaking because my hand, my arm, my whole body, is quivering.

In the moment my strike is stillborn, I imagine that I do it. I see the point of the dagger piercing Edmund's heart, picture how the wound would bleed, red as ripe strawberries, fast and hard and hot. I imagine my legs growing back together, fins sprouting where my feet are, deep blue scales replacing my skin. I would have to leave quickly; Isabella would wake up shortly after. I cannot imagine how she would respond, seeing her husband dead and bleeding, a dagger buried up to the hilt in his chest.

I imagine returning to the sea, to my father's castle. My sisters would embrace me. My father would kiss my cheek. I would be able to see my grandmother again. I would be with my family, able to mourn with those who love me, when she died. I would tend my flowers and feed the castle striped-noses and be with my sisters, my beautiful, loving sisters, once again. I would be alive.

But what kind of life would it be? How would I feel, living for the next two hundred and eighty years with the fact that my life had been purchased at the cost of Edmund's? How would I be able to live with the memory of stabbing him through the heart? I would survive to see tomorrow's dawn, but at what cost? I have lost a lot in this life—my voice, my comfort, my family—but losing Edmund would be unbearable.

I have already lost him. He married Isabella. He does not love me, not the way I love him. At least in the sea I am loved and wanted. I clench the dagger in both shaking hands, my breaths morphing into ragged gasps. One hand shoves the dagger downward even as the other hand holds it with equal strength in the air. Images dance in front of my eyes.

My bright red flowers rippling in the current.

Katrina scolding me for soaking my nightgown.

Allegro and Andante arguing over their flowerbeds.

Queen Adrienne touching my shoulder.

Grandmother smiling at my incessant curiosity.

And Edmund. Dancing beneath the roar of fireworks. Unconscious in my arms. Staring at the pond beneath the balcony. Pulling me free of the water. Standing with me against the courtiers' accusations. Grinning over a tall glass of ale. And always gently kissing my forehead at night.

I am afraid of dissolving. I long to see my sisters, father, and grandmother again. But somewhere deep inside of me, deeper than my fear and regret, deeper than all my most innate mermaid feelings and instincts, only one thing is absolute: Edmund must not die.

With that burst of certainty, the downward-pressing hand loses its grip on the dagger and falls to my side. I lurch to my feet and scramble from the tent and to the railing of the _Dolphin_. With every ounce of my ebbing strength, I throw the dagger out to sea. The blade catches the color of the clouds and reflects it back to me, red as ripe strawberries, before splashing into the water.

For a single second, I stare at the water, a blazing reflection of the sky; then my legs give out from underneath me, and I collapse to my knees. A strangled sound escapes my throat, followed in quick succession by a second and third and more, until they are coming so fast that I cannot breathe between them. My vision blurs, then, as I drop my head into my hands, I feel a drop of hot water slipping down my cheek. More water falls from my eyes, and I suddenly understand what I am doing.

I am crying. Hard. Harder than any mermaid has ever cried, harder than I have ever seen a human cry.

The first shaft of sunlight stretches over the eastern horizon, reaching toward me as though to wrap around my throat and steal my breath. I press my forehead against the railing of the ship and cringe into its tin shadow. I know that it is useless to hide from the sun, from the dawn, but I cannot help trying. The railing offers no protection; the sunlight touches my hand a moment later.

A single tiny bubble of translucent silver, almost the same color as my skin, floats away from the very tip of my longest finger. It drifts away from the _Dolphin_, caught on the breeze, and spins in three wild circles before finally settling on the surface of the water. It is not alone for long: a dozen more equally tiny bubbles break off my fingertips and follow the first, all whirling on the salty sea breeze before coming to rest on the water. My hands tingle, not quite painfully, but still unpleasantly, and I shudder, a fresh wave of tears streaking down my face. But the motion, small as it was, accelerates the process. Hundreds of bubbles dance off my hands and arms now, twirling away from me and leaving nothing but empty space behind. My tears, too, have changed—now, they, too, are tiny bubbles of sea foam. As they fall, they take small pieces of my cheeks and nose with them. I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to watch that swirling dance of bubbles, and wait with fierce but resigned dread for the moment when all thoughts will cease, the moment when I will be completely annihilated, nothing but foam under the _Dolphin_'s elegant bow…

"Grace." The voice is as gentle as it is unfamiliar. I open my eyes, surprised by the ability to still hear, to still think, to still see the sunlight glinting off the water and feel the crossbeam of the railing press against my forehead. "You are all right," the unfamiliar voice says.

I glance down at myself. My hands are intact. But they are wrong somehow, too pale, too clear, too—I struggle to define it exactly—translucent. The wooden planks of the _Dolphin_'s deck are just visible through my skin. I look up. A stranger smiles down at me. She is beautiful, oval-faced, fine-boned, and simply clothed, and, like my hands, vaguely transparent. The colors of the sails and clouds shine through her skin, turning her silver body and clothing varying shades of pink and white. Her voice is melodious, and her smile is warm.

"Who are you?" I ask without thinking, and the words come out clear and understandable. My hand flies to my mouth in shock. The voice is mine the same way the body is mine: similar to what it had been, but still not quite right. My voice had been as melodious as any mermaid's, but the sound that comes from my mouth now is…different. Richer. Fuller somehow.

"Yes, Grace, you can speak again," the stranger tells me, smiling.

"I don't understand," I admit. My tongue moves naturally, remembering without how to create words. I run it along the bottom edge of my top teeth, just for the pleasure of feeling it.

The transparent being holds out her hand. "You have performed the single most selfless act possible, young one: you gave up your life for another."

"So am I still alive?" I wonder, accepting the stranger's hand and getting to my feet, automatically bracing myself for the pain that always accompanies the action. But no pain comes. A smile breaks across my face. The ship bucks over a wave, and my balance wobbles, my weight shifting unexpectedly onto my left foot. The extra pressure should have set off a fresh wave of prickling pain up my leg, but it does not. My smile widens.

"In a sense," the stranger replies, answering my question. "Your worldly body has died. This"—she gestures at me with her free hand—"is your soul."

"My soul?" I repeat, startled again. "But I thought—"

The stranger holds up her hand, and I snap my mouth shut. "You were told correctly. A mermaid can receive a soul by earning the love of a human. But very few mermaids dare so much to gain something so foreign to them. And I have been watching you since the first time you laid eyes on Prince Edmund. I have seen what you have been through. Mermaid love is strong, but only the truest form of human love can sacrifice as you did, for greater love has no man than this: that a man lay down his life for his friend. In giving your life for Prince Edmund, you have proven yourself fully human, and, in being fully human, you have received an immortal soul."

I do not have time to absorb this information before commotion from behind causes me to turn away from the stranger. Edmund, now wearing a loose shirt and pants, wide-eyed and not breathing, is staring at me—or, rather, where I had been while dissolving. Isabella and his mother, both rubbing their eyes and yawning, stand behind him. "Grace?" he calls.

Though I doubt I have blood anymore, the sensation that fills me as I process his expression is very similar to having all the blood swirl away from my head. I turn toward the stranger again. "Did he…see?" I ask, my voice breaking over the last word.

She blinks once and dips her head in a tiny nod. I whirl around, wanting to tell Edmund that I am all right, but the other being holds my hand tightly. "There is nothing you can do now, Grace. He cannot see or hear you." She looks up at the clouds and tugs at my hand. "And it is time to go."

"Go?" I demand. "Where?" The thought of leaving floods my stomach with fear.

She smiles. "A soul's final home, young one," she replies. Her voice is patient, as though she is accustomed to the question.

"And where is that?" I ask. My words sound suspicious, though not by intention. It has been a long time since I had to think about the tone of my voice.

She laughs, amused. "It is the upper place amongst the stars. I suppose you would know it as heaven."

Edmund takes a step forward, toward the railing, toward me. "Grace!" he shouts again, with more desperation than before.

My eyes fill with tears, more gently than before, at the sound of his voice. I wish she would release my hand. "I'm here, Edmund," I answer. "I'm all right."

The transparent being touches my cheek and takes one step away, her hand encouraging me to follow. "Come along, Grace. It really is time to go."

"Wait," I protest, stopping her. "Can't I say goodbye first?"

She sighs, more as an expression of sadness than irritation. "You may," she allows after a moment. She drops my hand.

I turn to face the water. "Goodbye, my sisters," I say, blowing five kisses in the direction they had gone earlier. "I love you all. I'll miss you." My beautiful, wonderful sisters: Harmony, who had always been there to soothe my most violent emotions with the gentle pressure of her cool fingers; Melody and Rhythm and Allegro, who had always had a kind word for me; Andante, whose fiery temper had always been directed to taking care of me.

After a long moment of sending my love to my sisters, I focus again on the humans. Courtiers, servants, and crewmen, drawn up by the noise, have begun to emerge from below decks. Even with the growing crowd, I can pick out the queen with little trouble. I take a step toward her and smile. "You've always been so kind to me," I whisper. "My mother in every way that really matters." It hurts to realize that she will never know how much I love her.

Edmund leans heavily on the railing, staring down at the water with the serious, thoughtful expression that he often wears when looking at the sea. I close the two steps of distance between us and touch his hand. My insubstantial fingers glide through his like wind. "I love you, Edmund," I breathe, with conviction and feeling. "I'm sorry you had to see."

"What is meant to be is meant to be, young one," the other mumbles, her voice too quiet to draw my attention.

I run my fingertips down his cheek, willing him to turn his head and look at me but not surprised when he doesn't. "Thank you," I whisper when it becomes clear that he cannot see or feel me. "Thank you for everything. You have always, _always_, been worth it." Edmund closes his eyes and pulls in a deep, slightly trembling, breath.

Isabella joins him at the railing after a minute. She treads her arm through his and leans her head against his shoulder, also staring down into the water. I kiss her forehead lightly. "Take care of him," I whisper in her ear.

Finally, after a long moment during which I take one more look across the deck of the ship and at Edmund's face, I turn to the other being again. "All right. I'm ready to go now," I tell her, my voice faint. Leaving behind my families—both my mermaid and my human families—is a painful prospect, but I cannot deny the excitement of heaven. I have hardly ever dared to hope for it.

The lovely transparent being smiles and, taking my hand again, lifts me into the air. I smile back, my vision swimming through tears once more. Is it always like this for humans? Is the pain of leaving behind all they have ever known and loved always twisted around the joy of feeling the air stirring around their faces? It is impossible to hold on to my sadness while the wind sweeps over and beneath me, bearing me upwards.

The other being releases my hand, smiling reassuringly at me when I glance at her. "You will not fall," she promises, at the exact same instant that I realize on my own that I won't, that the air swirling around me will hold me up without the support of the other's hand.

I am flying.

I close my eyes and stretch out my arms as far as they will reach. The wind whispers against my skin, fills my lungs, nudges through my hair. I spin once, testing the control I have over my movements, then, having determined that I do still have control over my body, I twirl wildly through the air, not caring about my direction. This body experiences no dizziness; I throw my head back, laughing freely, and whirl away from the sea and into the blazing red clouds of heaven.


	34. Bonus Chapter: Shipwrecked

**Author's Note: This chapter is a bit of fun. Several months after finishing the first draft of _From the Sea_ and missing Edmund more than I had anticipated, I finally caved in to the desire to write about those six days at St. Melania's. This is what came out.**

**

* * *

**

_"…And so it is with heavy hearts that we lay our beloved king to rest. May the earth accept him kindly."_

_The simple wooden coffin slipped into the hole. Queen Isabella, still beautiful despite her showing age, struggled against the catch in her throat, a catch that would express itself in tears if she allowed it. Now, however, was not the time._

_She stood at the mouth of the grave, her two sons, three daughters, and eight grandchildren just behind her, altogether creating a half-circle that ringed the edge of the cliff. To the other side of the grave, intermingled with the trees, the crowd watched her, waiting._

_Isabella forced her eyes away from the black pit in front of her. "Let us all remember him as he was: a just king, a kind father, and an affectionate friend." The catch in her throat was loosing now, bringing with it the surge of emotion that she had to keep down, and she was grateful that she had already covered almost everything that had to be said. "From this place, may he always watch over us…" Her voice broke, and the tears came._

_This cliff had always been his favorite. From its peak, the high, jagged coastline of Honnaleigh arched away like the outstretched wings of a bird taking flight. From its edge, the land dropped away as though someone had sliced it, falling for one hundred lengths before meeting the ocean. To the south, nothing but ocean stretched as far as the horizon. To the east, the Honnaleian castle sparkled in the sunlight. Isabella remembered her first time up here. It had been only shortly after they were married, in the days before his happiness had quite erased his grief._

_The two always seem to come together, Isabella thought. Happiness and sorrow. Joy and pain. She wished she could see the good in this pain._

_Servants shoveled dirt onto the coffin; the gathered people shuddered a collective sob and dispersed. Only Isabella, her children, and her grandchildren remained to watch the servants finish the burial. They stood around the edge of the grave, all their eyes wet. And then, eventually, the servants and children left, giving the broken-hearted queen time to be alone._

_The salty ocean wind tore at her loose hair and black skirt, howling through the trees like it, too, wept._

* * *

_No one knew about the papers. They were kept in a locked drawer at the king's desk, written and then hidden away to gather dust. Had Isabella not taken it upon herself to clean out the desk, they might have stayed that way. But, four days after the funeral, she had the fierce desire to scrub everything in sight. She laughed about it, recalling how her mother had whitewashed all the walls in the Madirite castle after her father had died._

_So Isabella hunted down the key to her husband's desk and began to clean it out. That is how she stumbled across the papers._

_They were yellowed and handwritten, dated back almost sixty years. Isabella riffled through them, surprised. She had expected, when she first noticed them, that they were income figures or renovation plans or discarded speeches, but there were no columns of numbers, no diagrams of future buildings, no greetings or discussions on political developments._

_Almost sixty years old—Isabella did the math quickly. That would have been just after they had been married. Just after…_

_A name on one page caught her attention. Grace. Yes, that would have been just after her disappearance._

_Isabella imagined this was a very private matter, which would explain why they were locked in a drawer that looked like it hadn't been opened since, and that he wouldn't want her to read them. But Edmund was dead—the pain that shot through her with that thought made her wince—and she was curious. He'd never know. And, as she stood there with the papers in her hand, staring down at his handwriting, she guessed that maybe, just maybe, if she read them, she might have a moment to feel like he was back again, a moment where she might be able to again hear his voice and see his face._

_So, her desire to clean gone as though it had never existed, Isabella brought the stack of papers to her room and read them._

* * *

**In the Twenty-Fourth Year of Queen Adrienne**

Perhaps someday, I'll be able to recognize that it wasn't my fault. Perhaps someday, I'll be able to look back and see only life's unpredictability, rather than the series of mistakes that led to the events I am going to relate. Until then, however, I suppose I am just going to have to live with it. My hope is that putting it all onto paper will help. And, before I say anything else, let me say this:

Grace, I always loved you. That never changed, even when everything else did. I'm so sorry—so very, very sorry—for all the pain I put you through; if there was some way I could go back and do everything over again, knowing what I do now, I would. But I can't. No one can. We only get one chance at life, and that's it. So I'm stuck with that: I'm sorry. Wherever you are, my little mermaid, I hope you can forgive me. I miss you, and I love you.

* * *

It began with the trip to Madirae just before my eighteenth birthday. At the time, I had no idea how the trip would change my life, because, at the time, it was just another week in the dark, smoky Madirite castle, another attempt of my mother's to arrange my marriage to the Madirite princess, no different than the half-dozen other times we'd made the exact same trip. Mother knew full well that I didn't want to marry the Madirite princess. The princess had been away from Madirae for almost five years. But Mother had struck upon the idea of marrying me off to the princess at about the same time and since then had been pushing and prodding at me to accept her idea. When I was thirteen, marriage was as foreign a thought as Fairyland politics. When I was seventeen, marriage was something that I knew had to be accomplished, but I had been so set on not marrying the Madirite princess for so many years that giving in now was inexcusable.

And so, the night before my eighteenth birthday, Mother, half the Honnaleian court, and I boarded the Sparrow and started for home without even a new alliance for our pains.

We were supposed to be home in time for the evening of my birthday, but the Sparrow fell into a lull halfway across the sea and wouldn't move for several hours, so we had a celebration at sea, and a good one at that: dancing, fireworks, even a little food.

Everyone was so caught up in the party that, by the time the wind started to sound unhealthy, the waves too large, we were already trapped.

Nothing is as terrifying as a ship in a storm, waves crashing over the deck, wind tearing at the sails, people screaming and sobbing and clinging to rails. Lord Charles slipped and tumbled over the railing at one point, drowning before most people knew he was overboard.

That's when it began to feel real. Realizing that this storm could take my life before anyone even noticed I was gone. I grew up at the ocean's edge, and I was used to seeing waves rushing beneath me. But always from dry land, safe on the coast. The Sparrow was totally at the mercy of the storm, and the storm had no mercy.

Everyone clamored onto lifeboats, and most people were safely away from the ship when the mainmast snapped. I wish I could write something heroic here, say that I wasn't in a lifeboat because I was helping others on, in complete disregard for my own safety. But that would be a lie. The simple fact was that, with the waves and the wind knocking me around, I just wasn't fast enough. The Sparrow ripped in half before I could reach the lifeboats.

I was hardly the only person to go into the sea that night. A few people managed to swim to the boats. A few people clung to floating debris and were rescued. Most drowned. I was nearly one of them.

Having grown up by the sea, I do know how to swim, but, in the middle of a storm, knowing how to swim hardly matters. A fierce downward current caught me, and I couldn't break out of it. I was several lengths below the surface and still sinking, resigned to dying in the water, when I was rescued.

By then, of course, I was barely conscious and thought at the time that my suffocating brain was making things up. But I swear, on my honor as prince of Honnaleigh, I was rescued by the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. Eyes as deep and dark as the sea. Silver skin. Hair almost as long as she was, black at the top and tipped with silver. This amazing creature wrapped her arms around me, pulled me loose of the current, and raced back to the surface.

I remember very little of what happened after that. I was delirious, slipping in and out of consciousness, dreams and reality twisting together. Sometimes, I felt cool fingers on my face. Sometimes, I felt my head dip below a sudden wave. And sometimes—believe me or not, but I swear I'm telling the truth—I thought I felt the brush of scales and fins against my legs.

Daylight finally woke me up. I was lying on hot sand, in hot summery sunlight, dim female voices around me and a hand rest against my forehead. "Can you hear me?" one of the voices, clearer and closer than the others, asked. "You're safe now."

I opened my eyes. "Where am I?" I wondered. My voice scraped through my throat, ragged and painful.

"Shh. You're safe, that's what's important. Can you stand?"

I tried, but my legs wouldn't hold me. I would've collapsed if the girl beside me hadn't caught me. "Careful," she warned, pulling my arm across her shoulders.

I'll never forget my first look at the girl who helped me off the beach. She was absolutely glorious, with eyes the color of the summer sky and dark hair that glimmered gold. She led me across the sand and into the shade of a small copse of trees. "I've already sent Roberta and Hannah to find Sister Mary," she told me quietly. "She'll see to your medical needs. I don't think you are in much danger now, though, but you'll need to rest."

Beyond the trees was a large stone structure, fenced off by an elegant iron gate. She helped me inside and onto a small bed, where I collapsed and slept.

* * *

When I woke up again, the beautiful girl was there beside the bed. She smiled and offered me a glass of water. "All better?"

I drank the water in three swallows. "I think so," I replied once the water was gone.

"Good. You've had us worried." She smiled, then let the smile fade off her face, and her voice softened. "You must have had a terrible experience."

I frowned. "Terrible" seemed too weak a word. "I was shipwrecked. Nearly drowned." The realization was overwhelming. I had nearly died. My thoughts flashed to the beautiful creature who had pulled me from the water. A mermaid. Impossible. I almost laughed at myself.

The girl passed one hand over her forehead as though dismissing the unpleasant and smiled again. "I'm Isabella."

"Edmund," I said. Her smile was dazzling, and I found it hard to think straight.

"Edmund," Isabella repeated, smiling wider, her blue eyes sparkling. "I hope you'll feel well enough to join us for supper tonight. Everyone is curious about you." She arched her eyebrows. "Men are something of a novelty here."

I chuckled. "So I'm in a convent, then?" I guessed. Isabella nodded once. "And your Supreme Mother trusts me among her daughters?"

I was teasing, of course, wanting to make her laugh again, and she did, amused and artless. My pulse stuttered. "Oh, I suspect you're in more danger from us than we are from you," she said.

"I'll be all right." I tried to look serious, but I was laughing, too, and that ruined the effect.

Isabella cocked her head and studied me as though I were an arcane piece of Scripture. Light sparkled like gold off her hair, almost blindingly bright. It's a shame you're here, I thought. You're too beautiful to be locked away in a convent. The thought twisted painfully inside me. "Yes," she whispered after a long moment. "Yes, I think you'll be all right." She stood with a suddenness that made me flinch and swept out of the room.

After a while, my stomach settled enough to remind me that I was hungry. I crawled out of the bed and tested my legs. They wobbled a little and felt strangely fuzzy, but they held, and I went in search of some food.

It wasn't long before I bumped into someone helpful: a middle-aged woman in a black robe and a nun's veil. She wore a thick wooden cross on a braided piece of twine around her neck; it swung low on her chest when she moved. The Supreme Mother, I guessed—Mother Agnes, Isabella had called her. She smiled graciously at me. "You are feeling better," she said.

"Thank you, ma'am, I am." I bowed to her, the formal, low bow to the head of an important household. "Thanks in large part to you, I assume."

Mother Agnes smiled. "Our purpose is but to serve. You must be hungry, my son. Let me show you the kitchen." She led me down the long stone corridor at a pace brisk enough to make my fuzzy-feeling legs ache.

The kitchen was a happy, busy place. A few women buzzed around the stone fireplace in the center of the far wall, two more kneaded bread dough on the counter that cut through the room. All wore the garments of nuns. They greeted the Supreme Mother, then fell into a stunned silence when they saw me. I smiled at them, forcing back a laugh when every single one of them blushed and looked away. "Have a seat, son," Mother Agnes instructed, pointing to the four wooden chairs pulled up to the counter before starting from the kitchen. "Sister Jessica, see that our guest has something to eat," she called back over her shoulder.

Sister Jessica cut and handed me a thick slice of still-warm bread and a wedge of cheese without once looking up. I had to laugh then. "I won't bite," I promised as I accepted the food.

"Oh, no, it's not that I think you will," Sister Jessica protested, her voice almost a whisper.

"Then how about you look up and say hello."

Behind her dark veil, I saw Sister Jessica's eyes flicker to my face. "Hello," she whispered, and then tittered nervously.

"Mercy, Jessica!" another bolder nun broke in. "What would Mother Agnes say if she saw you speaking to a…" She faded off, turning red from forehead to neck beneath her veil.

"I'm Edmund," I put into the thick silence, encouraging my smile to look less amused and more friendly. "What are your names?"

The nuns glanced at each other as though unsure about how to respond. They were treating me like a case of the plague, and, while I found it funny, I was determined to make their acquaintances. They had, after all, saved my life. "I'm Prudence," the bold one said. "I churned the milk to make that cheese."

I bit into the cheese. It was hard and salty and flavorful. "Thank you, Prudence," I said, because it seemed the only thing to do.

Soon, all the other women in the kitchen were calling out their names and histories, and eventually they smiled and laughed and met my eyes like we had been friends for years.

"So you have corrupted my daughters with your wicked ways." Mother Agnes's voice floated above the sounds of laughter. Everyone in the kitchen, including me, fell silent and turned toward her. "Back to work, girls; supper will be served in half-an-hour. Edmund, if you would please allow them to continue with their chores." Her voice was stern, but I thought I saw a glitter in her eyes that looked like humor. Still, she gestured me out of the kitchen.

"We'll see you at supper," Sister Jessica called after me. Mother Agnes fought to hide her smile.

Isabella fetched me for supper. I spent a few minutes trying to tidy up; between almost drowning and the time in bed, my clothes had become tattered and wrinkled. My mother's lectures about a prince's appearance trotted grimly through my mind as I tried, with no noticeable success, to smooth down my hair. All the while, I had to keep reminding myself that I was straightening up because I was going to face the women who had saved my life. Not because I was trying to make an impression on Isabella. Which, needless to say, wasn't helping the anxiety that always accompanies making public appearances.

I didn't hear her when she first entered the room. But I distinctly heard her clear her throat in a way that made her sound like she was hiding the desire to laugh. My heart skipped, stuttered, then struck up at double time as I turned toward her. "Good evening, Isabella," I greeted her, glad that my voice didn't shake even as I felt her name, smooth and sweet, on my tongue for the first time.

She smiled. "Good evening, Edmund. Mother Agnes asked me to invite you to supper. Will you come?" She sounded hopeful.

"I'd love to." And my stomach churned with more than just hunger when her smile grew.

Isabella led me down several stone corridors and ushered me into the dining hall. It was high-ceilinged and narrow. Four long wooden tables with equally long benches cut down the middle of the room. Steaming pots of food had already been brought to the tables, and my stomach growled so that everyone, I was sure, could hear it.

Mother Agnes stood at the head of the table nearest me and, with a sweep of her arm, invited Isabella and me to join her table. I squeezed into the little remaining bench space and smiled at the nuns around me. They all blushed and dropped their eyes.

"Everyone rise for the evening prayer," Mother Agnes commanded, and, as one, all the nuns got to their feet and bowed their heads. She began to pray, blessing the food and the people who prepared it, asking for peace for Sister Martha's failing health. Then, with a shock, I realized that she was praying for me, too. "May our Father's wisdom guide our traveler back home, safe and well," she murmured. Several nuns glanced up at me and then away as though ashamed of breaking their concentration. "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, amen."

The entire room full of nuns crossed themselves—I followed suit only a little belatedly—and echoed Mother Agnes's "amen" before opening their eyes and sitting back down.

The room was quiet, the irritating sounds of spoons scraping the bottom of bowls the only noise. I turned to the nearest woman and introduced myself.

"Anne," she said back in a tone that hinted she'd rather not say anything at all.

"And how did you come here, Sister Anne?" I asked.

"My parents died," she replied.

"Oh, I'm sorry. What happened to them?"

She looked up at me then. "They had the plague."

I grimaced. "The plague is awful. It swept through Honnaleigh when I was eight and killed a lot of people, including my father."

Sister Anne tilted her head and looked at me anew. "Are you from Honnaleigh?" she asked. I nodded. "What are you doing so far from home?"

I rolled my eyes. "Nothing extraordinary, I assure you. We were headed back home from Madirae when our ship sunk in a storm."

"And what were you doing in Madirae?" Isabella chimed in from across the table.

I smiled, self-conscious, and traced the grain of the table with one finger. "Again, nothing extraordinary. Just paying a friendly visit that was supposed to end with my marriage to the princess."

Many pairs of curious eyes turned on me. "The princess?" someone repeated. "You must be high-born, then," someone else said. "A lord." "A duke." "A knight." Several voices guessed at once.

I glanced toward the one who sounded the closest with a sheepish half-smile. "A prince, actually."

The room fell quiet again. Then, into the silence, Isabella spoke. "Prince Edmund of Honnaleigh. Fancy that. We saved the life of the prince."

* * *

I stayed at the convent for another four days, until there was a ship to take me home. How can I describe those four days? They were like nothing I had ever experienced. All the nuns were wonderful, but Isabella most of all. She was my constant companion for those days, and with every word, every smile, every laugh, I felt myself fall more and more in love with her until, hopelessly inexperienced boy that I was, I could no longer imagine my life without her.

If I've learned anything in my almost twenty years, I've learned that love is a tricky, slippery thing, popping up when you least expect it and crushing you like a slab of marble at the most inconvenient times. It keeps you awake on nights when you'd rather sleep and steals your appetite when you really should eat. And yet, somehow, you can't seem to hate it the way you should, because it is strangely wonderful. It makes the dull world turn colors. Suddenly, you're surrounded by sights and sounds and smells that, in one way or another, always seem to remind you of your love. At least, that's what it was like for me, being so utterly and hopelessly in love with Isabella. She brought light and life and warmth to places in me that I didn't even know before were dark and dead and cold.

But I digress.

The night before I was to leave that pretty little island found Isabella and me strolling through the Supreme Mother's lush flower garden. Call me cliché, but I had noticed just how full and round the moon was that night. Isabella took my hand and swung it between us, making me laugh.

"What?" she demanded, another of her heart-stopping smiles beginning to play across her lips.

"You're silly," I said, painfully aware of how ridiculous I sounded. For the past few days, every time I thought I wanted to say something charming or princely, I'd lose my mind and end up sounding stupid.

But Isabella laughed. "Are you sure you're not speaking about yourself?" she wondered archly.

I swung our joined hands and flashed the most foolish grin I could manage. I wished I could bottle her laugh and take it home with me. "What am I going to do without you?" I sighed aloud. Isabella quieted. Oh, great job, potato-head! I scolded myself. Now you've totally ruined the last night you'll ever have with her.

"Edmund—" she whispered after a moment.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. It was a stupid thing to say. I'm sorry."

Isabella pressed the fingers of her free hand to my lips and leaned toward me until her face was barely a hand's-breadth away. Maybe she didn't know it, but she certainly stopped more than just my words—my breath and heart and thoughts were just as affected. "Let's not talk about tomorrow just yet," she whispered, so quietly I had to concentrate to hear her.

"All right," I agreed through her fingers, amazed that I found enough air to say that much.

She sat, plopping down where she stood, in the middle of Mother Agnes's pink-edged peonies. They glowed softly white in the moonlight, and their silky-sweet fragrance was overwhelming. At her insistent tugging on my hand, I sat down beside her.

"Let's talk instead about tonight," Isabella continued once we were both safely surrounded by the huge, waist-high flowers.

"All right." I must have sounded dim, but the fact was that I couldn't quite draw breath buried in the smell of peonies. It was almost like drowning, that inability to breathe.

"So tell me, which are you: sad or happy?"

"I don't know." All I really felt at that moment was dazed. And afraid. "Mostly scared, I think."

"Oh?" Isabella slid closer in the confines of the flowers, until our sleeves were touching. "Why's that?"

"I don't know," I confessed, sounding again like a dim little boy. I wondered if she could hear the way my voice was shaking. "Maybe because until a week ago, my life seemed normal. Dull, perhaps, but predictable. Now, I don't know. I'm used to knowing, Isabella. Not knowing…it's frightening."

My gibberish must have made some sense to her, because she nodded and rested her head against my shoulder. That's when everything stopped functioning. The weight of her head on my arm, the warmth of her body next to me, the faintly-floral scent of her hair mixed in with the heavier smell of peonies and the nearby ocean-even my breaths shook.

"Are you all right?" Isabella asked, her voice concerned, as she lifted her head off my shoulder.

"All right," I muttered. "Yes, I'm fine." I felt smaller and colder without her touch.

She slid even closer, the whole weight of her body pressed into my left side. "It's all too much," she observed, pulling our twined hands onto her lap and running her free fingers across my knuckles. I could only nod. "I'm not a nun. I haven't taken any vows."

And I couldn't possibly fathom why she was saying that.

"So, you know, if you were to kiss me, that would be all right."

"Kiss you? Why…why would I want to do that?" Stupid, stupid Prince Potato-head.

Isabella tilted her head back and looked at me. In the moonlight, she was ethereal. Too beautiful to be true. She smiled. "I love you, Edmund, even when you are being dumb."

Then she kissed me.

It is not possible to die from happiness. I know this for a fact. Because, if it were, I would have died right there in Mother Agnes's peonies when Isabella kissed me for the first time.

She wrapped her arms around my neck and buried her fingers into my hair, falling slowly backward into the clump of peonies and pulling me down with her. She tasted sweet, like ripe strawberries, or chocolate, maybe—absolutely wonderful. I slid my arms as best I could between her and the ground and held her. Her heart was throbbing as hard as mine was; I could feel the beats rattling through her, as fast as mine shook me.

Finally, afraid that both of us might suffocate if we didn't breathe soon, I forced my head up. She grunted in protest and pulled me back down. "Wait a second, Isabella," I said against her lips, my voice shaking. "Breathe. Now's hardly the best time to be suffocating."

She laughed and sucked in a couple too-shallow breaths.

I slumped to the ground and rolled onto my back, staring up through the flowers and trees at the fat moon. "Merciful heaven," I muttered.

"You've been practicing, haven't you?" Isabella accused, shifting until she could look straight down at me, her long hair just grazing my cheek. Her voice was no steadier than mine.

I shook my head. "No, I've never kissed a girl before."

"You know what? You're a liar." She kissed me again, long enough to put us both back where we started, shaking and breathless, our hearts beating at the speed of hummingbird wings.

"I think my head is going to explode," I said after a while.

Isabella's laugh tickled my neck. "I really doubt it. If the heads of everyone who is kissed exploded, there would be very few people left in this world."

"And most of them would be nuns."

She sighed and pressed her cheek into my forehead. "Edmund, tell me a secret," she whispered in my ear. Her fingers were still tangled in my hair.

"I love you."

"No, I already know that, so it doesn't count."

I exhaled through my teeth and tried to think—difficult while she was so close. "Umm…when I was seven, I ate a worm."

"Ew."

"Yeah, dug it right out of the garden and popped it in my mouth without even washing it off."

"Why'd you do that?"

I shrugged. "My father told me they tasted best that way, fresh and alive and still dirty."

"And you believed him?"

"What, and you didn't believe your father when you were seven?"

Isabella laughed. "Not when he suggested I eat a worm!"

She was coming back; I could feel her nose tracing down mine, and I was ready. But then something sharp stabbed me in the neck, and I jumped.

"What?" Isabella demanded, alarmed.

"I think something just bit me."

She looked up, and what she saw made her collapse in laughter. "Edmund, you're covered in…in ants!"

I felt them now, crawling over my head and shoulders, angry that I had disturbed their hill. Isabella sprang to her feet and held out her hand to me, then set to brushing them off my back while I shook them out of my hair. "Ugh! Rotten things!" I snarled once most of them were off, though one still scuttled under my sleeve.

Isabella hadn't stopped laughing. "I guess I…I should've…remembered that peonies always…attract ants," she stuttered.

"Well, I'm glad you're enjoying yourself." It was hard, while she was laughing, to continue sounding angry.

She grabbed my arm and shook me a little. "Oh, lighten up, it's funny!"

"You wouldn't be saying that if you had been attacked by ants." The ferocity of the statement was completely lost in my irrepressable laugh. Isabella took my hand, and we ran laughing back into the convent.

But I learned an important lesson that night: peonies do not make romantic places for a first kiss, despite being fragrant and beautiful, because they always have an ant hill beneath them.


End file.
